


The Chronicles of Madness - Volume 2

by OlliPhyrre



Series: The Chronicles of Madness [3]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Assassins, Baba Yaga - Freeform, C.A.T., Cicero - Freeform, Courser, Coursers, Daedra, Daedric, Daedric Prince, Dark Brotherhood - Freeform, Drug Use, Elder Scrolls Lore, Ex Sex, F/F, F/M, Fallout, Fallout 4 - Freeform, Fantasy, Female drifter, Hallucinations, Heterosexual Sex, Homosexuality, Lemon, Lesbian Sex, Listener - Freeform, Love Triangles, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Science Fiction, Sex, Sex Change, Shivering Isles, Skyrim - Freeform, Smut, Synth, Synths, The Chronicles of Madness, Violence, ex-boyfriend, female gunslinger, gunslinger, hist sap, malacath - Freeform, molag bal - Freeform, myth, the house of troubles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-02
Updated: 2017-07-17
Packaged: 2018-11-22 05:09:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 27,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11373228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OlliPhyrre/pseuds/OlliPhyrre
Summary: Cicero and Cat enact a plan to bring down the Night Mother. Astrid plots her revenge against all who have wronged her. And an old lover shows up, just to stir the pot.This is an Elder Scrolls-Fallout crossover on an alternate timeline.





	1. Love In A Trashcan

 

 

“So when do we make our move?” whispered Astrid. She tried to keep her voice low. Lounging on the bed, the Nord woman watched her husband, Arnbjorn. He sat in a chair, carefully sharpening his blade against a whetting stone.

“Soon,” he huffed in that baritone voice of his, “but we need to be certain it's the right time.” Arnbjorn set down the stone. Stroking a fingertip along the blade's edge, he smoothed away the dust.

The two sat in silence, staring at one another from across their sleeping quarters – quarters which had now been moved to the very back of the Falkreath Sanctuary. The couple's former chambers had been taken over by _her._ The Night Mother – the black haired Bosmer witch who called herself _Julia_. Then there was the Bosmer's tagalong – her strangely dressed manservant by the name of X1-81. He was the _Courser_ , whatever that meant. He typically paced in the Sanctuary's main hall, ever watchful, keeping a close eye on the lead members of the Dark Brotherhood. Things carried on this way for months.

New initiates filled the Sanctuary, much to Julia's demand – and much to Astrid's chagrin. The Dark Brotherhood brimmed with assassins still wet behind the ears. Some got the job done. Some went above and beyond. Some never came back, stealing half of the hideout's weapons cache just before disappearing. The overall security of the Sanctuary had slipped – even with that white haired Courser roaming the halls like a slaughterfish on the hunt. People came and went, came and went. Bodies in and out of the door, as if there was no longer a password. Astrid was fairly certain the initiates brought guests. It was bad enough that some of her lead members now entertained visitors. Like spoiled children with no discipline, the initiates did whatever they pleased. Astrid was powerless over them. Whatever the Night Mother demanded was the new way of things. Poor Astrid had been demoted. _Dethroned._ Shoved into the shadows, hidden at the back of the caverns. She found it all so _ridiculous_.

There was _some_ discipline enacted against the initiates, but it was _overkill_. X1-81 executed those who got in his way, mouthed off to the Night Mother, or otherwise stepped on the wrong toes for the wrong reasons. So many initiates filled the halls, and yet so many of their corpses had to be dragged out and dumped in the woods. Then there would come a new wave of replacements. Astrid found such turnover for an assassin's guild to be so humiliating that it sickened her.

In addition to such things, that pale bastard – the Courser – carried a strange weapon with him. Astrid had never seen the likes of it in all her years. X1-81 gripped the damn thing in his arms like a crossbow, but it certainly didn't shoot bolts. The infernal contraption blasted a strange energy that ripped through its targets, melting their skin like butter. How she hated the Courser! And she _hated_ Julia! Blasphemous, wasn't it? A dark sister of the Black Hand _hating the Night Mother;_ the very matriarch of their syndicate! That had to break a tenet or two. Not as if Astrid even followed such things to begin with, but with this _New Order_ in place, all five tenets were officially dead and gone.

_Julia._ Julia! Her name made Astrid's stomach heave. The Night Mother – this demented version of her was so strange. The Matron didn't look the way Astrid knew of her. She was alive, first of all. She walked and talked. In fact, she talked endlessly, always shouting at the rest of them. When Julia first arrived, her skin had barely formed over her skeleton – it was as though she was still a rotted old corpse, but standing upright and shrieking orders. No need for a Listener – it was impossible _not_ to hear her! Then, Julia _changed_. It was gradual, but after some time had passed, her skin grew in tight and smooth – the color of olives. She was no longer hideous and frightening, but quite beautiful. She looked like a Bosmer princess, yet she was as horrible as a hag raven. So horrible that Julia sent Astrid to carry out menial errands as a daily slap in the face. Not only so, but she insulted Astrid in front of the others – in front of Nazir, Babette, Krex – even in front of the initiates! Disgusting. Embarrassing. Loathsome.

“I've spoken with the others,” Astrid whispered to Arnbjorn. “Nazir, Gabriella, you know – our original crew. All are on board. They want Julia and her ... _friend_... gone. They want those initiates _gone_.”

 

* * *

 

Skye had beautiful, dark skin. It was the color of ash. And her hair was white, like starlight. Gabriella swooned, whispering such flowery words as she stroked her lover's thighs, teasing the wet center between them with her fingers and lips. Skye arched her back and moaned softly. Gabriella went in for the proverbial kill, inserting her tongue deep between the hot folds of Skye's privates. Her lover whimpered with pleasure, panting heavily as she squeezed her eyes shut. Gabriella inserted a finger or two, locating just the right spot to excite Skye while working her magic with her mouth. Skye gasped, shocked by the very sensation that sent goosebumps up and down her extremities. Meanwhile, Gabriella's lips moved deliberately against her lover's hip gyrations. This went on for a matter of time before Skye yelped louder, building closer to climax. As Gabriella felt Skye's warm, firm legs tense around her head, her lover moaned one final note in a breathy, wanton tone.

As her voice diminished, Skye relaxed her spine flat against the bed; her naked chest heaved as her erect, dark nipples slowly lifted and fell. Skye tried, in vain, to catch her breath. With a proud smirk, Gabriella climbed up to her lover's arms. Both Dunmer women held one another close, basking in the afterglow of such spontaneous passion.

It grew quiet. Very quiet.

“How is your situation here at the Sanctuary?” asked Skye, breaking the silence.

Gabriella's eyes lowered. Her lover had asked a terrible question. “Not great,” she muttered. “But,” she continued, “at least I can have _you_ here. So many people are in and out, it seems to no longer be a hideaway. We're lucky the legion hasn't come knocking, yet.”

“So that's a good thing,” grinned Skye.

Gabriella shook her head. She glided a finger along Skye's naked chest. “My love, as much as it is a good thing to have _you_ here, you should _not_ be here. But...” she paused, sighing. “...things have changed much over this last year.”

“Not for the better, I take it?”

“No,” replied Gabriella. “I fear the worst.”

“The worst?” Skye had a look of concern on her face as she hugged on Gabriella. “Tell me about the worst.”

“Some months ago,” began Gabriella, “we had plans to take back the Sanctuary. A coup, if you will. I was more than ready. But before Astrid could organize us, everything fell apart. Astrid and Arnbjorn...” Gabriella trailed off.

“Astrid and Arnbjorn...?”

“They were _caught_. One of the initiates must have been spying. It ended up getting Arnbjorn killed. Executed.”

“By the Nine!” gasped Skye, hugging Gabriella closer. “What of _your_ involvement?”

“My name was never mentioned. Nor were the names of the others. Astrid and Arnbjorn took the fall, so as to protect the rest of us.” Gabriella stared off, her bottom lip quivered. “A debt I never can fully repay...”

“What happened to Astrid?” asked Skye.

“She's still alive,” Gabriella nodded. Closing her eyes, she shook her head. “Poor wretch. She's been a mess since her husband was killed. Can't say I blame her. I hardly see her anymore. She's not in the Sanctuary much. Julia – that _she-devil –_ she has Astrid filling contract kills in the north. Just one right after another. Julia keeps her away for months at a time, giving her little provisions with which to travel. But Astrid knows she has to return, or else the Night Mother will send that _Courser_ after her. He has methods of tracking that are above and beyond anything I've ever known.”

“That's terrible...”

“It's better than being executed. Astrid's tough. She can survive out there. But yes, she has no place to hide.”

“So,” began Skye, snuggling closer to Gabriella, “ _where_ is Astrid now?”

“On the road,” answered Gabriella. “To Markarth.”

Skye grinned devilishly. “Who's the _target?_ ”

Gabriella laughed. “No one to concern yourself with. Just a pompous Thalmor that an over-patriotic Nord probably wanted dead. If Astrid were more political, she might actually enjoy _that_ kill.”

“Interesting,” said Skye. “Your life is... very, _very_ interesting, my love.”

Gabriella sighed. “Not anymore, it isn't. The Dark Brotherhood has not been a _real_ family in some time. My life is a nightmare now.” Gabriella leaned forward and gently kissed Skye on her lips. “But as I said, my love, at least I can have you here with me, _from time to time._ ”

* * *

 

music: [Love In A Trashcan - The Raveonettes](https://youtu.be/B4rUk6Ed0c8?list=FLrosTeDaqPA8Oa9MnKulNJQ)


	2. Starlight And The Alien

“Cursed mountains!” yelled Cicero. “There's always a – _a_ _mountain_ in our way!” The jester scrunched his face with annoyance as he and Cat bounced up and down with the bumpy stride of the horse beneath them. The path they took west was blocked by a small, but inconvenient, _bluff_. Not quite a mountain, unlike the mountains on the western border of the Reach just ahead. Regardless, the two had to ride around its base, then cross over it, which would be unpleasant, given the colder temperatures at its peak, and all those frost trolls one could shake a gun at.

“You...” winced Cat, “...are _yelling_ in my ear!” She let go of a rein and rubbed at the auricle of her left ear.

“Oh.” Cicero's voice dropped. “Apologies, Wanderer.” From behind, he wrapped his arms around her, hugging tightly to Cat's small frame. The jester gave her a loving peck on the cheek. He whispered, “Cicero does not wish to damage your _sensitive_ , little ears.” Then he playfully kissed just behind Cat's ear.

Cat rolled her eyes and glanced back at the jester. He beamed a smile that might have been genuine, or it might have been sarcastic. She could hardly tell with him. The look on his face made her laugh. Cat leaned back and affectionately nuzzled the base of her head into Cicero's chest. Meanwhile, the Wanderer's guns hung from the side of the horse's saddle, secured in place as much as possible. The animal's tenacious clip-clopping hooves jostled just about everything attached to its back. To this day, Cat armed herself with that over-sized combat rifle, in addition to Old Faithful. After a time, crafting ammunition wasn't too much of a hassle once she learned the basics of smithing bullets from metal and explosive powder.

There was no doubt about it. Cat was a sharp shooter across the land of Skyrim. One time, the Wanderer nailed a draugr right between the eyes as it meandered from its crypt. Damn thing scared her half to death, popping out from behind some broken ruins, running around like a feral ghoul. And whenever Cat and Cicero passed through a small city, onlookers caught sight of her weapons from time to time, asking, _“What in the Divines are those?!”_ to which Cat would always reply, _“They're mine.”_ Then she'd rant about how if anyone else tried to use them, the guns would explode in their hands, blowing their arms off at the shoulder. It was enough to dissuade curious pickpockets. The whole charade always made Cicero cackle with amusement, drinking in _the looks_ on their stupid faces!

The bluff wasn't far in the distance as the horse strode up, following the leveled path that cleared right through the obstacle. No frost trolls this time, which was a lucky streak for Cat and Cicero. Their travels between this point and Solitude took a few sour turns when trolls had come barreling toward them at the onset of their trip. Soon it was discovered that trolls were upsetting to the damn horse – the animal was far too skittish for distant travel. So much so, that at one point a troll lunged and the horse reared, bucking both the Wanderer and the jester from its back. After dispatching the troll with two daggers across its throat, Cicero vowed to _also_ slit the horse's throat and leave it on the doorstep of the _lying swindler_ who sold it to them. Cat, having a general love for animals, warned, _“If you ever hurt a horse, or a dog, or a cat, I will kick you so hard in your nuts making that trademark voice of yours go mute.”_ And it was at the start of their trip that Cicero rescinded all threats against animals, to only occasionally mutter such things under his breath. The Wanderer really was being a bit of a grump.

“Cicero,” said Cat, as they cleared the bluff, descending down a long, winding hill.

“Yes?”

“Are you... _up_ my shirt?”

The jester had slowly but surely maneuvered his gloved hand beneath the Wanderer's leather duster, then slipped it underneath her t-shirt. He found her breast and had been gradually fondling it for some time during their trek through the bluff.

Cicero giggled.

“Can you please get your hand off second base? We're almost there.”

Cicero affectionately pressed his cheek against Cat's ear and whispered, “What is... _second base?_ ”

She smiled. “Nevermind.”

The horse trotted around a bend and the sight of a city nestled in the mountains of the Reach came into view; a major, sprawling municipality, littered with silver mines. _Markarth._

 

* * *

 

Cat held the reins, escorting their horse up the stone steps just outside of Markarth's stables. As she and Cicero ascended the stairway, a tall Dunmer woman waited for them at the top. With a slight nod, she held up her hand, indicating that she spotted the two of them. The Dunmer wore a hood. As she approached Cicero, Cat, and their nickering horse, she reached up, lowering the hood to her shoulders, revealing a comely flow of white hair – as white as starlight.

“Skye,” nodded Cicero. He reached to the horse's saddle and removed a satchel that jingled with the sound of gold coins.

“Is that _all_ of it?” asked Skye.

Cicero smirked. “Hmph!” he laughed, pulling a key from his front pocket. Holding the key inches from Skye's face, he teased, “The pretty Dunmer will get the _rest_ of it back in Dawnstar.” Cicero turned, gesturing to Cat. “You're to ride back with the Wanderer – on that insipid horse.”

“Hey!” yelled Cat. She reached up to the horse and stroked his muzzle. “He's a sweet horse. He just... has emotional issues.” Her voice lowered. “...Like the rest of us.”

Ignoring their side commentary, Skye peeked into the satchel of coins and asked, “How much is this?”

“Two thousand septims – as agreed!” Cicero gave her a bow. “But the key to Proudspire manor? Oh no, _no_. The lovely elf doesn't get _that_ until Cicero brings back our prize.” He paused and his face grew serious. “Your information better be accurate. If Astrid is not in Markarth on a contract – you won't be leaving Dawnstar alive.”

Skye's jaw dropped. “I didn't lie!” she protested.

Cat put a hand on Cicero's shoulder. “Is that necessary?” she whispered to him. “ _Threatening_ her?”

Cicero whirled around and looked Cat in the eye. “I know what I'm doing. Cicero always knows what he's doing in these situations. One cannot be too lax with informants. We want honesty. _Loyalty_.” He turned back toward Skye, grinning at her like a sly fox. “Up you go,” he pointed to the horse.

Shaking her head, Skye pulled up her hood and approached the horse. She wedged her foot into a stirrup and hoisted her weight to the animal's back. Cat did the same, positioning herself behind Skye, so as to make sure she didn't jump from the horse and flee at any point on the way back to Dawnstar.

“What's his name?” asked the Dunmer.

“Excuse me?” asked Cat.

“Your horse.”

“Oh,” said Cat. She hadn't considered naming him. “I think I'll call him... _Sinatra_. He has those big blue eyes.”

“I don't follow,” remarked Skye, shaking her head.

Cicero walked over and blew a farewell kiss to Cat. Then he glanced at Skye and said, “Don't try to understand the Wanderer's references. She's little more than an _alien_.”

Skye, “What is an _alien?_ She is foreign?”

“In a manner of speaking,” muttered Cat as she waved goodbye to Cicero, then directed Sinatra to turn toward the northeast.

“Why does he call you _Wanderer_?” asked Skye, utterly confused. “Is that your name or your title?”

“Yes,” replied Cat.

 


	3. Just Your Fool

Entering the gates of Markarth was not met with a happy sight; never mind that the city, itself, looked about as _dismal_ as a Dwemer's wet dream. As Cicero strolled in, he was dressed in heavy, black armor, bearing an ebony short sword that dangled by his side. He did this in order to not be too conspicuous had he appeared as a jester _– he was undercover after all._ Just within the city limits, the princeling heard the sound of shouts and crying erupting in the town square. Cicero spied a group of Thalmor soldiers dragging an elderly man through the streets. A woman and her two children hurried behind them, screaming for mercy, begging the high elves to release the old man. The elven soldiers ignored her pleas, hoisting the man onto a platform, securing his wrists and neck into a large, wooden stock.

“Istlgan Brittle-Tooth,” a Thalmor spoke, reading from a scroll of parchment, “you are hereby charged, under the sovereignty of the Aldmeri Dominion, with the act of heresy for Talos worship. Your beheading is to take place tomorrow at dawn.”

Dropping to her knees, the young woman sobbed. Likewise, her children wailed in unison, clinging to the stained fabric of their mother's dress. “Mama!” one of them cried, “what are they doing to grandpoppa?”

Wiping tears and dirt from her face, the young woman stood, gently tugging her children closer to the old man in the stock. “Father,” she said to Istlgan, “why didn't you throw away that amulet? You know it is illegal here!”

Istlgan's eyes misted over as he looked upon the face of his daughter. “It is who we are,” he said proudly. “We are _Nords_ , Hestalla.”

“You'll be dead!” she cried, slipping her hand through his as it hung from a tight wooden hole in the stock.

Istlgan lovingly squeezed his daughter's hand. “Hestalla,” he shushed her tears. “My beautiful Hestalla. My beloved daughter. Do _not_ fear for me. Talos watches over us all. My soul is ready for Sovngarde.”

“You are a fool,” she whispered to her father as a heavy tear rolled down her cheek.

At that moment, Hestalla's eldest child let go of her hand and ran up to Cicero. “Help us, won't you?” the blond boy begged in a tiny voice. Then he turned back toward his mother, pointing at Cicero. “This man could help grandpoppa!” he said to Hestalla. “Look at his clothes and his sword! He could _fight_ those soldiers!”

Hestalla hurried over to her boy and snatched him up. “Stay away from Imperials, Jonik.” Holding her son close, her icy blue eyes glared hard at Cicero. “ _They're_ no better than the elves.”

 

* * *

 

Cicero followed Skye's instructions which led him to Understone Keep – the palace grounds of Markarth. Skye was able to get enough information out of Gabriella in order to pinpoint the general location of Astrid's target. It was a Thalmor, but not just any Thalmor. A Justiciar – someone of high ranking. Skye never did get a name – she suspected Gabriella was trying to maintain some iota of secrecy in spite of revealing all too much during their weeks of sexual congress. But it was close enough. Cicero knew the best way to uncover secrets was to hire a mistress. Though it had been a long time since his last contract, he was a trained _hunter_ , himself. The jester hadn't lost his expertise.

Upon entry, Understone Keep looked like a cavern, but the cave flooring gave way to ornate Dwemer stone work which branched out into massive, decadent halls and rooms. Cicero was impressed by the architecture. Those stumpy dwarfy imps could really carve out a living space, although the overall decor was still quite drab. Nonetheless, it matched the rest of Skyrim, which was always quite drab. Cicero sighed.

An Imperial guard raised his gauntlet, stopping the princeling from venturing any farther. “What business do you have in the Keep?”

Cicero handed the guard a forged letter, bearing his alias – Cirothius Virone. The legion seal was official, as it had been stolen from an influential Imperial commander by the name of Trebulus Androtis. Cicero and Cat dispatched of him _months_ ago – that was a fun kill! Oh, how much the commander screamed and choked! That happened after he took a bite of the poisoned apple Cicero had slipped into his meal. But Cat couldn't bear to watch the man die slowly, so of course she used that boring _gun_ of hers and put the clod out of his misery. _She was no fun!_ Regardless, the legion had yet to discover commander Androtis' body. He was killed while camped out somewhere on the easternmost border of the Pale, just outside of Winterhold. It was very foolish to be traveling _alone_ so close Stormcloak territory. Cicero knew that was dangerous for an Imperial commander. It was all too perfect. Whenever those legion idiots _do_ find the commander's body, they'll blame the Stormcloaks – or the icy weather. Really, what _was_ the big difference between the two, anyway?

“Officer...” the guard's eyes glanced from the letter to Cicero, “... _Virone_. Welcome to Understone Keep. Guests from the legion are granted any quarters located in the western wing of the palace.” The guard gestured to a corridor that led straight back to the main hall.

Cicero flashed a wicked grin. Arguably his smile appeared so impish that it nearly betrayed the jester to be an impostor, but the guard shook off the notion – for it had been a _long_ day. The princeling made his way through the main palace hall, ascending a flight of stone steps which led to the guest quarters. Cicero promptly selected a vacant room, then waltzed down another hallway, inspecting nearby quarters for any sign of Astrid. None such signs were evident, but Cicero knew best. Astrid wasn't a sloppy hunter. As much as Cicero loathed the _Pretender_ from back during his brief time at Falkreath, he knew she became the leader of the Black Hand for a reason; the woman was a _professional_. Best to track down her intended victim. Astrid would not be revealing herself any time before the kill.

As he walked, Cicero maintained his composure, maintaining a facade that he knew where he was going, rather than wandering aimlessly. Servants passed him by without so much as a glance or a, _“Do you need help finding something?”_ which was, all in all, a good sign. Best not to draw attention. The more the servants took notice, the more the palace visitors would overhear their chatter. And from there, the likelier it would be that Astrid would learn of Cicero's presence. The harlot would either run, or try to murder the jester when his back was turned!

Cicero continued walking, scanning the area with ever so calculative analysis. Meanwhile, his mind wandered – _Wandered!_ The Wanderer. He thought of her. Cicero dearly missed Cat. Hopefully, the Wanderer and Skye made it back to Dawnstar safely. And hopefully that confounded Dunmer could be trusted. If she did anything – _anything!_ – to his beloved Wanderer, why Cicero _would rip out her_ –

“–Watch where you're going!” snapped a high elf after having just smacked into Cicero. “Blundering _fool_ , can't even see where you're...” The Altmer trailed off as he looked squarely at Cicero's face. The angry lines across his brow slowly faded. “...Ci... _Cicero?_ ” asked the elf.

The jester's golden eyes went wide. He recognized the Altmer. “ _Ondolemar?_ ”

The high elf pressed his lips together, almost as if he was suddenly nervous. He snapped his fingers and gestured a _shoo!_ motion to his Thalmor soldiers. “Leave us!” he ordered. The soldiers gave an obedient Aldmeri Dominion salute, turned, and disappeared around a corner.

Ondolemar pulled down the black hood of his Thalmor robes, revealing long, lush white hair that prettily framed his bronze, elven face. His ears peeked through his hair, narrowing to long, wispy points that bowed ever so slightly toward the curvature of his head. “Is it _really_ you?” Ondolemar asked.

“In the flesh,” said Cicero as calmly as he could. Things were no longer going according to plan.

“Are you,” Ondolemar paused, looking Cicero up and down, “in the _legion_ now?”

Cicero opened his mouth to answer, but he was cut off by Ondolemar.

“I can't believe this! How long has it been? _Decades?_ ” The Altmer moved closer to Cicero, placing his hand on Cicero's cheek. “I confess... I've had you in my thoughts.”

Cicero reached up to Ondolemar's hand and gently lowered it from his cheek. “Yes,” nodded the jester. “I thought you might have.”

The high elf moved even closer, his steady breath warming the alabaster skin of Cicero's cheek. “I never can forgive you for disappearing on me like you did back in Cyrodiil. But we _were_ young, then. _Foolish_ and young. You must have had a good reason to suddenly leave. Yes?”

Cicero looked up at Ondolemar and bit his lower lip. “Cicer – _I..._ ” he shook his head, “...had a job offer. Couldn't refuse it.”

Ondolemar leaned his lips closer to Cicero's mouth. The princeling felt the elf's body move ever closer as well. The warmth of Ondolemar's skin through his robes was evident, even from beneath Cicero's black armor. Admittedly, the jester was a little aroused as it reminded him of their... _history_.

“So it was the legion,” nodded Ondolemar. “They sent you away?”

“I was indeed sent away.” Cicero grinned. “And _now_ I am here! Tell me, what brings the likes of you to this abysmal place? The last time we were... ahem... _together_ , you told me you were to become a priest.”

“One of the highest echelon – yes I _was_ planning to become an Aldmeri priest in my youth. Splendid memory you have there. But as the years wore on, I gravitated toward the position of _Thalmor Justiciar_. Now instead of preaching, I _hunt down_ the heretics.” Ondolemar grinned, placing his hands on Cicero's hips and tugging him closer. “With that sharp memory, you must remember how much I enjoyed _a good hunt._ ”

The princeling nodded. “You, indeed, hunted me,” smiled Cicero. “All the way from the Colovian Highlands to the Imperial City!”

“I found you in a brothel!” laughed Ondolemar. “Drunk! With all those women crawling all over you.”

Cicero laughed. “If I recall, you made them leave!”

The Altmer leaned closer to Cicero's ear. “I wanted you all to myself.”

The jester whispered back, “And you had me.”

Ondolemar smiled. “Again and again.”

Cicero sighed at the memories of his youth. He reached down to Ondolemar's hands on his hips and gently removed them from their drawing grip. The jester backed away from the Altmer, just a bit. Looking the high elf up and down, Cicero said, “A Thalmor _Justiciar_ , hm?”

Ondolemar proudly nodded, placing his black hood back up over his hair and ears. “My task is to eliminate Talos worship throughout this region. It doesn't get done without _my_ order.”

Cicero couldn't believe _this_ was it – Ondolemar was the target. Him! Of all the Thalmor Justiciars in all of Tamriel – _Ondolemar!_ The jester's time spent with the high elf was pleasurable, yes, but there was a reason he disappeared into the embrace of the Dark Brotherhood without so much as a goodbye. Ondolemar was... crazy. And not the kind of _crazy_ Cicero could appreciate. Crazy as in... the Altmer would have single handedly brought down the entire Black Hand just to have his lover back in his arms – and under his constant supervision! Ondolemar was possessive. Obsessive. Controlling. And, oh yes, passionate of course, but incredibly avaricious with his suitors. Cicero couldn't carry on that way. He needed freedom – _space_. Within the princeling, there was a budding anxiety from having just reconnected with Ondolemar. Cicero could tell by that age old hungry look in the elf's green eyes – the _obsession_ was still there.

“I'm quite tired,” Cicero admitted. “It seems I must retire to my quarters, but should you like company for your morning meal...”

“I'll have one of my guards fetch you in the early hours,” smiled Ondolemar, just before he turned and walked off.

 

* * *

 

Within the confines of his bedroom, Cicero carefully removed his black armor, clothed in nothing more than his royal studded leather outfit from the Shivering Isles. He pulled out his leather boots, gloves, and his velvet jester hat, slipping on each item with intense relief. Cicero's body was finally comfortable – and able to do what he did best... _sneak_. He quietly crept down to Ondolemar's room, knowing full well that while the Justiciar slept, Astrid would likely be on the prowl, ready to strike. Cicero left behind his ebony sword, switching it out for his trusty daggers. Likewise, he brought along something a little extra special – poison-tipped darts, easy enough to jab or throw. The poison wasn't deadly, only paralytic. Contrary to his usual agenda, the jester wanted Astrid alive.

Cicero waited until Ondolemar's guards retired for the evening. Another shift wasn't scheduled to begin until daybreak. The Justiciar only brought the two Thalmor soldiers – even _they_ had to sleep at some point. The jester steathily approached the cracked door to the Altmer's room, gently widening its entrance, then pushing it back into position behind him. Ondolemar slept soundly beneath the canopy of a large, decadent bed. The surrounding room, itself, was spacious. Cicero was fairly certain that even the _Jarl's_ bed wasn't quite this fancy. A nearby window allowed silver moonlight to creep in, illuminating a variety of dark shapes and shadows across the high elf's quarters. Cicero moved with grace and silence, slinking into position, awaiting his target's next move. Nestled into a black corner, the princeling watched for movement, accompanied by nothing more than the relaxing sound of Ondolemar's breathing.

Some time had passed, but the jester never inched from his spot. He had the patience of a saber cat, awaiting its prey. Before long, the door to Ondolemar's quarters slowly inched open. There was not a sound. Cicero relied solely on his vision in the dark. He didn't quite have the gift that, say, a vampire might, but his eyes were fairly adept at seeing details in the night. For that, Cicero's Daedric blood may have been responsible. Who was to know?

A shadow moved along the ground. It was quick and lithe – it was definitely Astrid. She neared the foot of Ondolemar's bed, slowly arching her back. Something glinted in the moonlight, and Cicero spied the sharp edge of a silver blade. Astrid was intent on cutting the Justiciar's throat, it seemed. The princeling grinned, knowing he had more than enough time to dispatch a dart. She was at the foot of the bed. Ondolemar's throat was at the other end. Astrid was running short on time. Cicero lifted the dart, lining its tip within the scope of her body, and then – _he let it fly_.

The Nord gave a small gasp, as quiet as a mouse, and her hand flew to the back of her neck. She plucked something from her skin and inspected it. Astrid's eyes narrowed on the dart. No longer intent on cutting Ondolemar's throat, she scanned the shadows for any hint of her stalker, defensively gripping her dagger. Cicero waited. Astrid took a step forward, then fell flat on her face as her body went numb with paralysis. The jester stifled a giggle as he stepped from the shadows, peering down at her. Unfortunately, Astrid hadn't quite fallen unconscious yet. The poison was supposed to act quickly, but no alchemy was ever perfect. She looked up to see the face of _that damned fool_ grinning down at her, and so she began to curse and scream – loudly! Cicero's eyes popped wide, and he quickly reached down to cover that infernal mouth of hers. As Astrid grumbled and struggled against the muffle of his glove, a lantern blazed from across the room. Within seconds, Astrid finally _shut up_ and lost consciousness. Stunned, Cicero looked up to see Ondolemar standing over the top of him.

“What's the meaning of this?” snapped Ondolemar.

Cicero stood, trying to find the right words to weasel his way out of this one.

The high elf looked down at Astrid, spying her silver blade. “What's going on? Who is this woman?” Ondolemar knelt down, inspecting Astrid's body. He noticed the Black Hand stitched across her shrouded armor. The Justiciar's jaw dropped. “By the gods!” he gasped. “The Dark Brotherhood!” Ondolemar stood, backing away from Astrid.

Meanwhile, Cicero stared at the Altmer, unsure if he needed to speak up quite yet.

Ondolemar pointed at the unconscious woman. With gratefulness in his voice, he said, “You... you _stopped_ her!”

Cicero raised one eyebrow. “Uh... _yes_ I did.” He nodded. “Yes!”

Ondolemar clasped a hand across his chest and hurried toward Cicero. “You saved my life!”

Cicero took Ondolemar's hand and gently brushed a lock of his white, elven hair behind his ear. “I saw her sneak in, and so I followed her. I'll be taking her back to the... eh... legion headquarters for questioning. We've always had such troubles with the Dark Brotherhood.”

Ondolemar looked at Cicero and wrapped his arms around him, drawing him close. The elf looked the jester up and down and asked, “ _What_ are you wearing? Are these your sleeping clothes?” The Altmer playfully tugged at the jester's hat.

Cicero nodded. “Sure.” He readjusted the position of his hat.

“I knew it, dear Cicero,” grinned Ondolemar.

Cicero pursed his lips curiously. “You knew what I slept in?”

“I knew you still loved me.” Cradling Cicero's jaw in both hands, Ondolemar leaned forward, pressing his mouth against the princeling's. Cicero felt a rush of warmth beneath his leathers. After some time, he pulled his lips away from Ondolemar's.

“What is it?” asked the high elf with a smile. He reached an eager hand down the front of Cicero's trousers, gently tugging at the jester's growing erection.

Cicero closed his eyes, remembering – _imagining_ – what kind of pleasure the elf could bring him, knowing full well that _this was not a good idea_. Ondolemar was an Altmer of power and authority. He was far too high profile. Not only that, Cicero knew how _insane_ he could be! And what of the Wanderer back in Dawnstar? Wouldn't this break her heart? Well, probably _not_. Cicero knew the Wanderer didn't understand things like fidelity and such. There must have been a mishap in her design. It was bad enough she had feelings for that _Liar_ , Deacon! And it would be hypocritical of Cicero to engage Ondolemar in any further stimulation beneath his clothing. But at this point, the Altmer had already been kissing deeply along Cicero's neck and jawline, stroking the length of the princeling's penis until the naked tip of it bulged out from the top of his leather waistline.

“I want you...” the elf softly implored in Cicero's ear.

It felt good. Cicero couldn't lie about that. Ondolemar always made him feel good, except for those times he made Cicero feel terrible. But _right now,_ this was good. But it was indeed wrong – and weird. So very weird! Astrid was sprawled on the floor, completely out cold. Cicero couldn't determine if that put a damper on things or possibly made them all the more exciting. The jester huffed, “I can't.” Cicero pushed Ondolemar away.

The Altmer's eyes pierced through the princeling with bitterness. “And why _not?_ ” Ondolemar held up an index finger and smirked. “Oh wait! _Don't_ tell me. There's someone _else_ , isn't there?”

Cicero nodded. “Exactly.”

Ondolemar crossed his arms. “Since when are _you_ monogamous?”

Cicero leaned down and grabbed hold of Astrid, lifting her, and then slinging her weight over his shoulder. “It cannot happen,” said Cicero, sternly. “I apologize, Ondolemar.”

The Altmer grimaced. “Apologize?!” He pressed himself against Cicero, nose to nose. “You left me! Gone! Not a word. Not even a note! And you show up out of nowhere, after all these years, barging into my room in the middle of the night, saving my very life from an _assassin_ , rejecting my long reserved affections, _and you apologize?!_ ”

With a scowl, Cicero's eyes narrowed and he hissed, “Cicero doesn't have time for this!” He lifted his hand, jabbing a dart into the side of Ondolemar's neck – directly into his jugular. The high elf yelped and backed away, not long before his knees buckled and he collapsed to the floor. Cicero turned, heading for the door.

As the princeling exited the room, Ondolemar muttered, “You'll be _mine_ again, you – you _fool!_ Just... you... wait...” The Justiciar was fast asleep.

 

* * *

music:[ Just Your Fool - The Rolling Stones](https://youtu.be/PacX2YgdLOo?list=FLrosTeDaqPA8Oa9MnKulNJQ)

 


	4. Boss Ass Bitch

Istlgan's attention was roused by the sound of footsteps. The old man's neck and wrists bled and ached from the wooden clamp of the stock, nevertheless, he craned his head as much as possible to see who approached.

With Astrid slumped over his shoulder, Cicero waltzed up to the old man. The jester glanced around – no guards were in sight. They must have abandoned this post, presuming Istlgan didn't have it in him to break free of the stock, as if such a thing were possible even for a young man. Cicero reached a hand to the lock that hung from the stock's iron clasp.

“What are you doing?” mumbled Istlgan.

“Shut up you old turd,” growled Cicero. “Cicero _shouldn't_ be wasting his precious time with the likes of you...” The jester's voice trailed off as he gave the latch a hard twist. His lockpick snapped, but the lock itself popped open. The princeling tossed both pick and lock to the ground and lifted the stock from the old man's neck and wrists.

Istlgan stood, but before he could thank Cicero, the jester grabbed the Nord by his ratty tunic and dragged him to a sizable fissure that ran through the eastern side of Markarth's city wall. Cicero shoved the confused old man through, then slipped between the stone with Astrid still weighing him down. All this he did with the utmost noiselessness, but the jester _grit his teeth_ the entire time.

Once they crossed to the other side, Istlgan dropped to his knees. “Thank you! Thank you! Talos _bless_ you my son!”

“Sithis!” cursed Cicero. “I have an unconscious shrew on my back and a sniveling old twit in my presence!” The jester lowered Astrid to the ground to give his muscles a break. “Go on, old man...” muttered Cicero. “ _Run!_ Get yourself far from this cesspool. Otherwise, they'll have your _idiot_ head by morning.”

Istlgan approached Cicero and took his hand, shaking it. “You have the look of an Imperial about you, but you have the heart of a true son of _Skyrim_. May Talos bless–”

“Let go of Cicero!” the princeling hissed, yanking his hand from the elderly man's weak grasp.

Istlgan nodded, smiling kindly. He turned and shuffled toward the southeast, likely to make his way toward Whiterun. Whatever the old man planned to do upon arrival was now on him. Cicero got him free. Cicero got him out. The jester's kind deed was done.

“Gods!” huffed Cicero, hoisting Astrid from the ground, furiously cradling her dead weight. “Why in the name of Sithis did I do _that?_ ” He felt utterly disgusted with himself. All that... _caring_. Cicero shuddered.

Astrid lifted her head, slowly waking from her paralytic stupor. She groaned.

“And _you!_ ” the princeling grumbled through clenched teeth. The Nord stirred in his arms. “Cicero _is not carrying you_ all the way to Dawnstar!” He closed his eyes, concentrating as hard as he could on the general direction of the new Sanctuary. A swirl of light coalesced around him and Astrid. Her eyes grew wide with surprise as the two of them promptly disappeared into thin air. Somewhere between Markarth and Dawnstar, Cicero thanked Sithis for his ability to teleport. For such a trim physique, Astrid really was _far_ too heavy to lug across the region.

 

* * *

 

“What's with that eye of yours?” Skye pointed to Cat's one synth eye. It moved back and forth robotically. Its movement was not nearly as smooth as her other human eye.

“Family heirloom,” muttered Cat, thumbing through the playing cards in her hand.

Skye looked down at the cards in her own hand. “What sort of game _is_ this?” she asked.

“Poker,” replied Cat. She had a deck of cards stashed in her duster from the last time she was in the Commonwealth. After cutting the deck and dealing, she was – by far – easily winning against the Dunmer. The silly elf couldn't tell when Cat was bluffing, nor did she really understand the rules.

“I think I lost _again_ ,” frowned Skye. “I don't wish to play anymore. You keep winning all my septims.”

“Let's take a smoke break!” suggested Cat. Pausing, she downed a bottle of brandy, then promptly wiped her mouth on the sleeve of her duster with a satisfactory “ _ahhh...”_ To add to Cat's delight, not only did she land a deck of cards when she was in Boston, but she managed to swipe a carton of Deacon's cigarettes. The Wanderer withdrew a pack from the front pocket of her jacket, then repeatedly smacked it against her palm. Withdrawing two cigarettes, she placed one in her mouth and tossed the other across the table to Skye.

The Dunmer inspected the little white stick of tobacco that had rolled toward her. “What am I to do with this?”

Cat leaned forward and flicked at her lighter. A small flame erupted in front of the cigarette that dangled from her lips. “You just light the end of it like _this_ , and take a long, _deep_ drag.” The Wanderer sucked at the cigarette until its tip glowed red. Smiling, she smoothly exhaled a lungful of smoke. It wafted into Skye's face, who promptly choked and coughed. “Come on, come on!” said Cat. “ _Your_ turn.”

Skye touched the cigarette's end to the lighter's flame and took a puff. The Dunmer promptly dropped her cigarette to the floor, hacking like an old, sick dog. Repeatedly smacking a hand to her chest, Skye tried to rid her insides of that wretched smoke.

Cat kicked up her boots to the table, threw her head back, and laughed – her smoky cigarette wedged tight to the corner of her chuckling mouth.

Skye grimaced. “I take it you don't have many friends, _do_ you?”

Removing the cigarette with two fingers, clouds of smoke escaped Cat's lips as she replied, “Uh, well I have... Cicero. And now I have Sinatra. And now _you!_ ”

Skye furrowed her brow. “We are _not_ friends.”

“ _Yeah_ ,” nodded Cat, ashing her cigarette over the floor. “Not after all that money you owe me.”

The dimly lit room inside the main hall of the Dawnstar Sanctuary suddenly illuminated with a bright flash. Cicero appeared out of nowhere, holding Astrid. Skye bolted from her seat and yelped with a fright.

“It's cool,” Cat reassured the Dunmer. The Wanderer's lips tightly gripped the burning cigarette as she thumbed through her deck of cards. “He always does that.”

Exasperated, Cicero dropped Astrid to the floor. He snatched a chain attached to a nearby stone wall and fastened its main shackle around the Nord's neck. Unmoving, she remained lying on the floor, still a bit poisoned. Astrid wasn't quite talkative at this point. It was unclear if she seemed aware of her surroundings.

The jester spun around. “What in Oblivion is that smell? Is that what I _think_ it is?” He marched over to Cat and snatched the cigarette from her mouth. “Cicero has told you again and _again_ – stop smoking these nasty little things!”

“Hey!” yelled Cat, pushing her boots against the table. Her chair teetered backward and she fell flat on her spine.

Cicero put his hands on his hips and cocked his head to the side. “Are you _drunk!?_ ”

“She's been drunk this whole time,” Skye reported in a deadpan tone.

Still flat on her back, Cat giggled, then hiccuped. “Tattletale!” she hollered. “Uff! I think something just came up the back of my throat.”

“Wanderer!” cried Cicero. “It hasn't even been a full day since my departure!” He reached down and lifted Cat to her feet. She stumbled a bit, then hung onto the jester for support. Luckily, he was strong and sturdy as hell – it was like hanging onto a human wall.

Cicero spied the deck of cards on the table and the pile of septims amassed where Cat was sitting. Gesturing to the table, he asked Skye, “Did she coax you into playing that horrible card game?”

The Dunmer nodded, then clarified, “More like she _insisted repeatedly,_ but yes.”

Cicero held Cat steady with one hand, and with the other he pushed all the coins back toward Skye. “Don't play this game with her. She wins every time! The last time she talked me into doing it, she won all my gold, my _hat_ , and I had to do all the cleaning for a month.”

“Looks like you got your hat back,” Skye observed.

“Didn't fit. His head is huuuuge.” Cat slurred. “I also won his entire bed.” Then she snickered into Cicero's ear, “But you didn't complain about that.” Cat erupted into drunken laughter, throwing her weight backward. Cicero nearly fell over trying to steady her back upright.

The princeling took a deep breath. “Speaking of bed – it's time you slept _this_ off.” Excusing himself, Cicero escorted Cat out of the main hall. He walked her down a few steps and turned a corner, leading the way to a small, single bed. “Come now,” he said, “you need to lie down. You always drink more than you should. Don't you realize you're the size of a large child?”

Cat pointed at Cicero and stammered, “Y-yoooou're the size of a large child!” Then she closed her eyes and made a _pfffff!_ sound, laughing her way down onto the bed.

Shaking his head, Cicero positioned Cat on her back and removed her boots. As she continued to giggle, swaying side to side ever so slightly, he placed a fur blanket over his Wanderer. Then Cicero sat on the bed beside Cat, hoping she'd soon drift off to sleep.

She smiled, then sighed. “Sorry...”

“Sorry?” asked Cicero.

“I dunno,” she shrugged. “I'm annoying you.”

The jester raised an eyebrow. “Cicero annoys the Wanderer. The Wanderer annoys Cicero. But neither of us annoy each other so much that one might slit the others' throat... _yet._ ”

“I gotta ask...”

“Yes?”

“What's our end game here? I see you found Astrid. You _actually_ figured out where she was and nabbed her.” Pausing, Cat yawned. “Now what?”

Cicero reached for his Wanderer. Using his thumb, he gently caressed the skin along her cheek and temple. “ _Now?_ Now I must use Astrid as bait for Julia. Cicero must devise a way to _destroy_ the Night Mother.”

Cat shook her head. “So weird.”

“Weird?”

“When I first met you, the Night Mother was all you could think about. All you could talk about. She was your whole world. When she _was_ destroyed, you know, the _first_ time – you tried to kill yourself. Now that she's back, you're trying to figure out how to destroy her again.”

Cicero took a deep breath and looked away. Staring off, he muttered, “Trust me, Cicero has run these thoughts over and over in his mind, too. The realization hurts Cicero – a lot. But the reality is that things have _changed_.”

Cat reached for the jester's hand that stroked her face. Lowering it from her cheek, she tenderly slid her fingers between his. In a soft voice, she replied, “I know...”

 

* * *

 

“Arn...bnn...” Astrid rolled over on the floor, groaning. Night had passed and mid morning arrived. She was in and out of sleep, no longer due to the poison, but due to exhaustion.

Cat and Cicero sat at the table nearby, observing her.

“Arrrnnnn....” mumbled Astrid. “...brrrrn...”

“What's she saying?” asked Cat.

Cicero stood and walked over to where Astrid writhed on the floor. Crossing his arms, he looked down at her and answered, “My best guess? Arnbjorn.”

“That was her husband?”

Cicero nodded. Then he lifted a bucket of dirty mop water that had been long abandoned against the wall, collecting various dead bugs. “Pretender!” he cried, dumping the bucket's entire contents on Astrid's head. “Wake up!” The jester tossed the bucket aside and crouched down, closer to Astrid.

The Nord's eyes popped open as she gasped from the shock of cold water hitting her body. Her blond hair was now drenched and matted against her wet scalp. The look of it was no longer honey-gold, but a flat shade of brown, much like the color of the mop water. As soon as Astrid saw Cicero, her face twisted up with rage. “CLOWN!” she screamed. “You _horrible_ little fool!”

“So you do remember me,” he smiled wickedly.

“OF COURSE I remember you. How could I forget? That shrill voice! That shit-eating grin!” Astrid paused, reaching to the shackle around her neck. “What's the meaning of this?” She huffed. “IF you're going to kill me – _then kill me!_ ”

“Oh, now, now Pretender,” cooed Cicero, moving a wet strand of hair away from her face.

Astrid furiously whipped her head away. “Don't _touch_ me you little shit.”

Meanwhile, Cat scribbled on a piece of parchment. Then she looked up and frowned. “Are you sure they'll even want her back?”

“What do you mean, _want me back?_ ” said Astrid.

Cicero stood and walked back over to Cat. Peering down at the letter she wrote, he looked back up at Astrid and explained, “You're our hostage. We're sending a ransom letter. If they want one of their most talented assassins back, then the Night Mother must agree to meet on our terms.”

Astrid snorted. “She won't do that.”

“What do you mean?” asked Cat. “Why not? Aren't you the best they have?”

The chain around her neck clinked as Astrid positioned herself upright and scooted back against the wall. Drawing her knees to her chest, she sighed. “Of _course_ I am.”

Cicero's eyes narrowed. “Then why wouldn't they want you back?”

“She doesn't care if I've been _taken_. She only cares if I escape! She only cares about being in control of us – the brothers and sisters of the Black Hand. As long as I didn't run away on my own terms – as long as I'm locked up somewhere, in some fucking shithole against my will – oh trust me, _Julia_ would be perfectly content with that!” Astrid's face flushed red with anger. Then she laughed. “You'll never trap the Night Mother with this moronic plan! But _go ahead_. Write your letter. Waste your time.”

Cat put down the quill. She stood and asked Cicero in a quiet voice, “Are we wasting our time? You think?”

The jester rolled his eyes. Putting his hands on his hips he said to Astrid, “And I suppose you have a better plan?”

“No,” she snapped.

“Cicero thought not.”

“Well...” Astrid muttered.

The jester paused, glaring at the Pretender. “Well?!”

Astrid took a deep breath and stood, dragging the chain up with her neck. “The truth is that I don't want to go back there. Even if the Night Mother did want me back – which she doesn't – I don't want to return.” Astrid ran a hand through her wet hair. “However, I can't leave my people there, not with _her_. They don't want to be there anymore than I do. The Night Mother would probably put herself in a vulnerable spot to reclaim the rest of her key members. Without them, she has nothing. Just bumbling initiates who can't get the job done half the time. If _my people_ had someplace else to go... if they could form a _new_ group, with protection, under a _new_ leader...”

“ _What?_ ” asked Cicero.

“I think she's talking about a splinter group,” said Cat. “Happened all the time in the Commonwealth. Raiders splintered off from raiders. Led to a lot of turf wars, though. Nasty business.”

Cicero eyed Astrid. “You're suggesting we coerce veterans of the Dark Brotherhood to... _defect?_ ”

“Only the ones I trust,” nodded Astrid. “Krex, Nazir, Babette, Gabriella, Veezara.”

“How the hell are we going to do that?” asked Cat.

Astrid glared at the princeling and his Wanderer. “ _You_ can't.” She paused. “Not without my help.” The Nord slouched back down to the floor, crossed her legs, and sat. With a cold look on her face, and a calculative, matter-of-fact tone in her voice, Astrid said, “Get this _fucking chain_ off my neck and we'll talk.”

 

* * *

music: [Boss Ass Bitch - PTAF](https://youtu.be/N6ihCQZK-r0?list=FLrosTeDaqPA8Oa9MnKulNJQ)

 


	5. The King of Killers

It had been a long afternoon at the Windpeak Inn. Many travelers came and went as they passed through Dawnstar. Soon, evening approached and darkness spread across the city's clear night sky. It was at the onset of sundown that Thoring, the owner of the tavern, decided to pull his daughter Karita aside.

“Maybe you should play your music closer to the bar so I can keep an eye on you.”

Karita shook her head. “But father, why? I _always_ play near the hearth.”

Thoring pointed to a group of suspicious individuals who huddled around a table at the back of the inn. “I don't want my only child anywhere near that lot. They look like trouble.”

Toward the back of the inn, not far from the warm blaze of the hearth's fire, gathered a Dunmer, vampire, wizard, Redguard, and an Argonian. Each sat in silence, sipping their respective drinks, reading over the individual letters they held in their hands.

“It's Astrid's handwriting,” said Nazir. “Hand delivered to me in Falkreath while I was out to fetch supplies.”

“The courier delivered it to me while I was in Morthal, hunting a local herbalist,” admitted Veezara.

“I was already on my way to Dawnstar,” Babette explained. “My kind know _this_ city well, which is a long story I'd rather not discuss. Regardless, the letter was waiting for me in my room, just over there.” She turned and pointed. “Someone must have delivered it before my arrival.”

Gabriella shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “The last time I saw her, Skye had placed the letter on my dresser just before she left my room. I haven't seen her since. Krex was also at the Sanctuary around that time. The letter was addressed to the both of us. As instructed by Astrid's insistence, we kept the letter a secret. Krex and I devised an excuse for leaving the Sanctuary together. Regrettably, we had to outright _lie_ about our destination.”

Silence choked the group as each member took another sip of their drinks. Some fidgeted, while others re-read Astrid's instructions.

“If we go through with this,” sighed Veezara, “then I will have officially gone against everything I've _ever_ been raised to believe.”

Always the skeptic, Krex asked, “What if it's a _trap?_ ”

“Then we're fools,” answered Nazir.

“Then we're _dead_ ,” added Gabriella.

Babette shook her head. “This _is_ Astrid's handwriting. If someone _made_ her write it, then she's being held captive against her will. If that's the case, then we definitely can't leave – we have to find her!”

“ _Yes_ ,” Gabriella agreed. “Think of everything she has done for _us_...”

“ _Arnbjorn_...” Veezara muttered sadly, shaking his head.

“Held captive?” asked Krex. “How do you know she's not already dead? What if we're next?”

Nazir anxiously rubbed his brow. “What if it's the legion? They've been tailing us for years.”

“The legion? This far east?” asked Babette. “This is risky territory for Imperials in uniform.”

“But they _do_ come out this way,” insisted Nazir. “Contrary to all the jokes about the legion, those uniforms _do_ come off. Those Imperials can disguise themselves just like anybody else.”

Gabriella lifted her drink and chugged the rest of it down. “I say we just leave.”

“Agreed. I say we hit the road – and _fast!_ ” grumbled Krex. “We've already been sitting here for too long. I don't trust any of this!” Frowning, he crossed his arms.

The entrance to Windpeak Inn swung open. Wind and snow barreled its way in just before a dark figure stepped over the door's threshold. Nervously, each Dark Brotherhood member turned around, some gripping the weapons that hung by their sides. They spied a tall blond woman dressed in dark leathers approaching their table.

“ _You_ people look like you've seen a ghost!” she grinned.

“ _Astrid!_ ” said Nazir. “What the devil is going on?”

“A rebirth,” replied their former leader. “If you come with me, you're free to start your new lives – we can be a _new_ family again.” Astrid reached for a tankard of ale that sat on the table. Knocking the drink back, she gently set down the empty cup. “But it's either _all_ of you, or _none_ of you. Make your decisions now.”

 

* * *

 

Months had passed. Strange rumors circulated from coast to coast across the land of Skyrim. Such gossip made its way to the attention and interest of two Bosmer lads by the names Tadir Rosenwing and Malbion Gildenstone. Rosenwing and Gildenstone were down on their luck, having recently been sacked at the local sawmill in Ivarstead. Lounging in their hut, which was located on the outskirts of the small town, the two had settled in for the evening. There they sat in the farthest corner of the run down shack, examining a bottle of a very _strange_ concoction.

“We haven't eaten for days,” said Rosenwing. He stared at the bottle in his hands. “All our money is gone.”

“Do you think this is a good idea?” asked Gildenstone.

“What choice do we have left?” Rosenwing opened the bottle and sniffed its contents. He winced. “Stendarr's ass!” he cried. “It smells like frog vomit!”

Gildenstone nervously licked his lips. “What are we supposed to do with this, again?”

Rosenwing pointed to the bottle and explained, “Simple enough. We each take a sip of the sap, then chant the name of any Daedric prince in the House of Troubles. Then–”

“–How many?”

“What?”

Gildenstone cleared his throat. “How many times do we chant a Daedric prince's name?”

Rosenwing pulled a slip of paper from his tunic's front pocket. Unfolding it, he scanned its sloppily scribbled directions. “Ehh...” His eyes bounced left to right. “Three. Three times.”

Gildenstone nodded. “Then what?”

“Then we're supposed to experience... a _vision_.”

“A vision?”

“The King of Killers. He's to appear before us, or we appear before him. I'm not certain. But we tell him our request, he takes it, and that's that!” Rosenwing set the bottle down on a small table in front of them. Both elves eyed it.

“Hist Sap, eh?” asked Gildenstone.

“Bloody expensive, it was.” Rosenwing pointed to the bottle. “Do you know how hard it is to get a hold of Hist Sap? I had to give up my whole month's wages, and that was all I had left after that cunt took our jobs.”

“Temba Wide-Arm... rotten bitch,” snarled Gildenstone.

Rosenwind nodded. “We were hard workers! She never appreciated us.”

“We did slack a _little_ ,” shrugged Gildenstone.

“Who doesn't?” said Rosenwing. “The point is, we drink this sap, we talk to the King of Killers, and we give him _her_ bloody name!”

With hesitation in his eyes, Gildenstone pursed his lips. “We could always pray to the Night Mother. Doesn't involve drinking poison and all that.”

Rosenwing shook his head. “Nah, nah. I've heard nothin' but bad things about that lot. Dark Brotherhood ain't what it used to be. Bunch of amateurs that don't even get the job done half the time. I'm telling you, if the King of Killers accepts our request, that rotten, slave-driving devilcunt will be floatin' belly up in the river by tomorrow morning!”

“Then what?”

“Then we break into her house and take all her bloody stuff before anyone finds the body. Should set us up nicely until we find new jobs.”

Gildenstone reached for the bottle. He picked it up and plucked the cork from its neck. “Let's get this over with.” He took a sip, then quickly passed it to Rosenwing. His friend gave a nod and raised the bottle to his lips, taking a sip as well.

Re-corking the bottle and setting it back on the table, the two sat back in their chairs, somewhat hesitant to call out a Daedric prince's name.

“Who do we pick?” asked Gildenstone.

“Fuck it,” said Rosenwing shaking his head. “Let's pick the worst one. –You ready?”

Gildenstone nodded.

Rosenwing took a deep breath. “–Molag Bal!” he shouted. “–Molag Bal! –Molag Bal!”

The walls of their hut suddenly rumbled and cracked. Large splits erupted through the wood as it splintered away, floating off into the air like sharp, jagged snowflakes. Rosenwing and Gildenstone didn't see the usual white and green landscape of the surrounding woods. Instead, unusual trees that glowed purple, then faded to black, sprouted up from a red and lavender ground that swirled and undulated as if the grass were made of blobs of paint. The sky above was violet, mixed with shades of crimson and black. It swirled in unison with the ground.

“ _Where_ are we?” Gildenstone asked Rosenwing.

“On a plane of Oblivion,” spoke a voice off in the distance. It came from somewhere deep within a cove of those purple and black trees.

The two Bosmer walked along a bleeding path. Rosenwing looked to his left and saw something writhing along the ground. As he stared harder, it dawned on him that exploding across the terrain was a blanket of maggots, navigating the way to their destination.

Panicked, Gildenstone began to sweat profusely, insisting that he couldn't breathe.

Rosenwing grabbed his friend by the shoulder and gave him a sobering shake. “Stay with me,” he said.

As the two entered into a clearing beneath a canopy of the purple and black trees, they were met with the presence of a crimson-haired man. He wore a jester's hat and an ornate set of black Daedric armor that sporadically glowed red. His eyes were as yellow as the sun, and his dark pupils were slit like a snake's. Black markings traced along the contours of his cheekbones and jaw. When he spoke, his tone was both shrill and deep, as if two voices erupted from his inhuman throat.

“What _death_ do you wish to cause?” asked the unsettling man.

Stunned, Rosenwing and Gildenstone stared at him.

“Are you...” began Gildenstone, “the King of Killers?”

The man grinned. His smile was so wide and so wicked that the two Bosmer nearly pissed themselves.

“I am,” he replied. “And you have called upon the services of my order – The Delirium.”

“The Delirium are assassins?” asked Gildenstone.

“Enough questions!” snapped the King of Killers. “Make your request.”

“T-Temba...” muttered Rosenwing.

“Temba Wide-Arm,” nodded Gildenstone.

The King of Killers crossed his arms, glaring hard at the two Bosmer. “It will be done,” he said. “And now... your price to pay...”

Gildenstone turned to his friend and shouted, “You never said there was a _price!_ ”

The King of Killers grabbed Gildenstone by his wrist and howled with laughter. “Bosmer!” he cackled, “There is always a price!” The unsettling man lifted a brand that burned so hot it glowed white. He pressed it hard against Gildenstone's palm, then swiftly let go and snatched up the palm of his friend, repeating the application of the brand. Both howled in pain long after the brand had been lifted. Then the King of Killers instructed, “Look at your palms...” And, quite obediently, they did. “What you see is the mark of Sheogorath – _the three faces_. For calling upon the House of Troubles to fulfill your request, your souls are forever destined to the _madness_ of the Shivering Isles upon your deaths.”

“No!” cried Gildenstone. He dropped to his knees and wailed. “Get me out of here! This place is driving my mind insane! I want out! _I want out!_ ”

Rosenwing grabbed a hold of his friend, attempting to calm him down. Gildenstone fought against him and the two tumbled along the ground, rolling through the swirling blobs and the undulating maggots. Gildenstone continued to scream, his mind broken and confused – his panic devouring him with each passing moment. Rosenwing shook with sweat and nerves, his stomach twisted up like a knot and he feared his bowels would empty themselves if this carried on any longer. And then...

The plane surrounding the two Bosmer shuddered and shook, slowly splintering the walls of their shack back into place. Within moments, Rosenwing and Gildenstone found themselves sitting back in their chairs, staring at a bottle of Hist Sap on their table. All was quiet except for the distant chirp of crickets in the night.

* * *

music: [Psycho Killer - Velvet Revolver](https://youtu.be/ujB-pxOQJ-Y?list=FLrosTeDaqPA8Oa9MnKulNJQ) (Talking Heads cover)

 


	6. Mad World

The sound of yelling raged through the halls of the Falkreath Sanctuary. X1-81 stood by silently as various objects skidded across the cavern floor. A book shelf, and its subsequent books, violently rumbled and slid down the main hall's steps. A lantern whizzed through the air, smashing into a far wall. And as a grand finale, a collection of clay plates and fragile wine glasses rained down from above, shattering upon the ground like falling icicles.

“Julia's in a mood,” muttered Jolnie, a Breton initiate.

Her fellow Orsimer initiate, Garlak, agreed with a nod.

“ _Where_ have they gone!?” screamed the Night Mother. She furiously brandished a golden candlestick, standing not far from X1-81's position. The Courser did not flinch, but continued staring ahead from behind those dark goggles strapped to his face. “It has been too much time!” cried Julia. “Betrayers! Deceivers!” The Bosmer stopped screaming and turned her attention on the two initiates watching the spectacle. She pointed the candlestick at them. “ _You!_ ” she hissed. “When was the last time you heard from your elder members? The Argonian. The Redguard! _Any_ _of them!_ ”

Garlak shook his head and replied, “Sweet Mother, we haven't heard from them in _months_.”

Jolnie snickered.

The Night Mother's eyes narrowed on the insolent Breton. “ _What_ is so amusing?” Julia threw the candlestick.

With a gasp, Jolnie ducked. Then she stood back up and continued to laugh. “Haven't you heard? There's a new assassin's syndicate out there. They probably joined up with _that_.”

It suddenly dawned on the Night Mother that it had been too long since her last prayer was received. Requests for contracts had drastically waned. Through clenched teeth, the Bosmer asked Jolnie, “ _What_ new syndicate?”

“The Delirium,” Garlak answered for Jolnie.

Pointing a thumb at the well-informed Orsimer, Jolnie nodded. “Yes. That's the one. The Delirium. The rumors about it sound pretty incredible, too.”

Julia drew her lips back over her teeth as she seethed, “And _what_ is so _incredible_ about this _Delirium_?”

Jolnie shrugged. “They call their leader the King of Killers. You can find him by walking a plane of Oblivion through a drug induced trance!” Jolnie smiled and sighed. “It sounds all so very magical!” Then she frowned. “Not like this dismal little place.”

Julia cried out with rage as she turned, yanking X1-81's laser rifle from its holster. Whipping back toward Jolnie, the Night Mother unloaded blasts of plasma across the Breton's face and body. The initiate fell dead. Her corpse stunk of burnt leather as trails of smoke danced from her flesh to the ceiling. Terrified, Garlak cried out for mercy, turned, and fled for the Sanctuary door. His voice carried on all the way outside, through the trees and past the hills, until the very sound of his frantic yelps faded into the distance. The Orsimer was long gone.

“Mistress, that was one of our last initiates that ran out the door,” X1-81 reported in a calm, factual voice.

Julia shoved the rifle back into the Courser's holster. “ _Good_ ,” she snarled. “We don't need _cowards._ I have young blood arriving this evening for initiation. Replacements will be stationed here within the day.”

The sound of slow, sarcastic clapping culminated within the hall.

Julia turned to see who _dared_ to insult her after what she'd just done. “What in the name of _Sithis!_ ” she sneered.

“Yes,” chuckled a voice. “ _Sithis_ , indeed.” There stood Sheogorath, smirking and giving the Night Mother a sardonic bow.

Julia's eyes narrowed on the Mad God. “What in Oblivion do _you_ want?”

Sheogorath shook his head. “I want nothing, dear _Julia_. I have everything. That _Delirium_ our poor dead friend here spoke of?” He grinned wider. “That syndicate is _mine_.”

“What could _you_ possibly want with an assassins guild?” snapped the Night Mother.

Sheogorath leaned on his ornate cane and tilted his head ever so slightly as he contemplated the question. “Nothing!” he chirped gleefully. “I get a few souls out of it. But that's not the grand prize. Oh no. _My son_ is the proud leader of such a guild. My flesh and blood that _you_ _tormented_ for years on end, has taken _everything_ from you. This is what you deserve, _witch_.”

Julia hissed with laughter. “Sheogorath,” she shook her head. “Are you still sour about _that_ _child_ of yours? He made an exquisite slave.”

The Mad God's chipper expression turned serious. He approached Julia, speaking in a low voice. “For as long as my son breathes air and walks this realm in one piece, I shall see to it that he single-handedly brings about your demise.”

“He is _weak_ ,” Julia rasped.

“He is _strong_ ,” Sheogorath countered. “He has _my_ blood. He has abilities above and beyond any mere mortal.”

“His weakness _is_ a mortal!” snapped the Night Mother. “The one who gave me _this_ fresh body.”

Sheogorath turned away from Julia with a grin. “I wouldn't underestimate the girl,” he said. “I find her to be a rather _suiting_ daughter-in-law.” The Mad God snapped his fingers and vanished back to the Shivering Isles.

Fuming with anger, the Night Mother whipped around and barked orders at X1-81. “Go! _Find_ her!” she screamed. “Find Cicero's gunslinger by any means necessary!” Shrieking madly, Julia grabbed a nearby table, lifting one side of it high off the ground. In a burst of hysterics, she flipped the table over, creating a mess of fluttering papers and spilled inkwells. “I want my Keeper's lover in my possession _now!_ ” her voiced roared. “If I control the girl, then I control the fool!”

 

* * *

 

Cat moaned with pleasure as Cicero entered her from behind. The jester reached his hands around her hips, pulling the woman's curvaceous backside against his groin again – and again! –and again! Cicero leaned forward, gliding the muscular frame of his body across the naked skin of her back. Penetration suddenly became easier – _slicker._ The Wanderer grew wetter by the minute.

“ _Harder..._ ” Cat begged.

Letting go of Cat's hips, Cicero slid his hands up to her breasts. He firmly cupped their soft skin while his fingers teased her nipples. All the while, the jester fucked her a bit more aggressively from behind, drinking in the maddening sensation of that smooth, wet muscle contracting around his stiff privates. Cat moaned and arched her back – she could feel the curve of his penis reaching the very spot that sent little earthquakes through her pelvis.

Afraid he might climax too soon, Cicero slowed his pace. His eager mouth found the sensitive skin along the back of Cat's neck. There he kissed her again and again, pausing every other moment to whisper all the dirty little things he wanted to do to her in the dead of night.

“You sick fuck,” Cat panted with a laugh.

Cicero sucked gently on her earlobe “ _Of course I am,_ ” he whispered hungrily.

The jester's red hair fell in front of his eyes, brushing across the skin of the Wanderer's shoulders. The two moaned and groaned in harmony as they arched their spines in unison, both urging one another closer to orgasm.

Meanwhile, passersby busily walked along this particular corridor of the Dawnstar Sanctuary. On occasion, a few stopped right at Cicero's bedroom door, curiously pressing an ear to its surface. After determining the noise detected on the other side, they rolled their eyes, then hurried away. Reasons and theories as to why Nazir, himself, avoided _that_ _particular_ _hallway_ at all costs.

Cat's elbows buckled as she climaxed. With her ass still high in the air, her head plummeted face down, right into the fur blankets. There she stayed panting and moaning as Cicero straightened himself upright, fucking his exhausted little Wanderer with greater speed. The jester's thigh muscles flexed as he pumped faster and harder, maintaining his balance by holding onto the smooth, lovely curvature of Cat's backside. Cicero's golden eyes squeezed shut as he lifted his chin to the ceiling, howling with pleasure as his privates convulsed, ejaculating a warm mess deep inside of his pretty Wanderer. His body still quivering, Cicero's hips slowed. The jester's slippery shaft remained stiff in spite of the whole thing having arrived to a glorious end. Perspiration beaded along the muscles and hairs of Cicero's chest as it heaved in and out. He took a deep, steady breath through his nose and exhaled through his mouth, collapsing right alongside Cat, whose backside eventually teetered down to the blankets along with him.

Exhausted, Cicero rolled onto his back. He glanced over at Cat, only to discover she was already fast asleep. The jester smirked. “Wanderer, _really_...” he muttered under his breath. He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek, pulling a warm cover over her bottom half. Clearing his throat, Cicero settled his body against the soft cushion beneath him, closed his eyes, and nearly drifted off to sleep.

Except... something stirred the princeling from his rest. Something _called_ to him. It was... _one of them_. Someone beckoned to the House of Troubles, wanting to arrange a contract. Cicero could feel it in his blood. The sensation boiled up from his guts to his eyes, like a hot flash. The jester never _had_ to address each and every request if he didn't _want_ to, but since The Delirium was new, Cicero tried to be as responsive as possible. Though, often times he wondered how long this new past time would take away from his ultimate task – destroy the Night Mother. Those plans had fallen to the wayside, but make no mistake that Cicero stewed upon their impending resurgence, day in and day out.

The jester looked over at his Wanderer. She was sound asleep. Peaceful. _Pleasured_. All the things he wanted to see. Cicero shrugged – why not take the request? He closed his eyes and concentrated hard. Within moments, Cicero walked across a plane of Oblivion belonging to Malacath. This time around, someone must have channeled _his_ name amid all the rest. Frankly, the princeling preferred this plane over the others. Molag Bal's realm always sent recipients away with nightmares and trauma. Cicero snorted a laugh. That was their _own_ damn fault!

Malacath's territory was simpler. _Calmer_. It was a vast, open desert. The sky above was clear and as blue as the sea. The sand below was white, soft, and fine – like walking through silk. Of course the desert was quite empty except for the large spine of a long, dead dragon stretching across the very center of the realm. Malacath's _backbone_. Cicero was grateful that he was even welcome here to conduct his business. His father, the Mad God, was _never quite that_ _nice_ to old Malacath. But nevertheless...

“Are you _him?_ ” asked a tall, youthful man with blond hair. The man waded through the sand, approaching Cicero with determination. “Are you the King of Killers?”

Cicero wore nothing, aside from a pair of torn trousers – the kind one might see on a beggar. Even his feet were bare. The princeling's complexion was clear and his eyes were still as yellow as the sun, slit more like a cat's eyes this time around – less like a serpent's.

“I am,” nodded Cicero. The jester's voice was soothing and collected. Nothing like the cacophony of frenzied sounds he emitted in Molag Bal's realm.

“I have summoned you for a contract.”

“What is it you need?” pressed Cicero. “Give me a name.”

“Kodlinn Gray-Light,” answered the man. “Of Whiterun.”

“It shall be done,” nodded Cicero.

The princeling's summoner gestured for him to wait a moment. “Before I agree to your terms,” he said, “I have an extra request. Otherwise, I do not wish you to pursue the contract.”

“Go on.”

“Kodlinn is a difficult Nord to murder. He is trained by the sword and intelligent in the mind. He has outsmarted assassins in the past. Gray-Light is skilled enough to evade even the quietest of blades, and he is clever enough to have built a natural resistance to most poisons.”

Cicero crossed his arms. “My guess is that you wish to tell me, the King of Killers, _how_ to go about killing this Nord.”

“Not how, but _who_ ,” replied the man. “Please,” he said, shaking his head, “bear no insult to my extra request. Instead, your assassin of my choosing should be _honored_. Kodlinn is no easy target.”

“Whom do you choose?” asked Cicero.

“The woman with the weapons that bear iron projectiles. The woman who dresses like a man and speaks with unidentifiable inflection.” The summoner paused, thinking hard. “The drifter,” he clarified. “ _The_ _Wanderer_ is her title, I believe.”

“She has never been requested before,” observed Cicero. “But she has performed contracts at random.” He smiled. “A very good choice. The Wanderer is quite skilled.”

“Do you accept?”

Cicero crossed his arms and paced around the man, looking him up and down. “Very well.” He took the man's palm and gently pressed it to his lips, leaving behind Sheogorath's sigil of the three mouths, forever kissed upon the summoner's skin.

* * *

 

music: [Mad World - Blackmail](https://youtu.be/oAuvpV3NaXI?list=FLrosTeDaqPA8Oa9MnKulNJQ) (Tears For Fears cover)

 


	7. Heads Will Roll

Astrid placed a single blue mountain flower just beneath a snow covered fir tree. It was a tree into which she and Arnbjorn had once carved their names. So many decades had passed, but the carving was still there, albeit faded by years of ice and wind. Poetically _fitting_ for the likes of a Nord couple.

“I remember when we passed through this region in the north,” she said. “You saw this hill and suggested we sit and drink. We enjoyed one another that morning, and afterward we left our names on this pine.” Astrid's eyes stung with tears. She'd never let anyone see her weep, but the Nord was certain she was, at long last, completely alone up on that isolated hillside. Astrid buried her face in her hands, quietly crying into the warm leather of her gloves.

When the sensation passed, she lifted her face, wiping away all residual evidence of grief. “I miss you, husband,” she muttered. “What happened to you was a _mistake_.”

Astrid fiddled with the blue mountain flower, examining its petals beneath the shine of the morning sun. “I'm in a new family now – a new assassins guild. But, I must confess that not everything is perfect.”

Astrid shook her head. “ _Arnbjorn!_ If you only knew – you would be _furious._ It's that little man – _Cicero_. Remember him? It's _him_ , of all people! He _'_ s running the new syndicate.” She grunted with disgust. “The little clown isn't what we thought he was. He's... _different_.”

Astrid picked up the blue mountain flower and smelled its scent – lavender and earth. Then, she set the flower back beneath the tree. Her eyes darkened. “It's _his_ fault that you're dead.” Astrid reached for the trunk of the pine, touching her fingers to the faded carving of their names. Lowering her hand, she made a fist and pounded it into the soil. “That bitch who killed you wouldn't have shown up at our doorstep _if it weren't for_ _Cicero!_ He was the one who lost track of the real Night Mother's body! He was the one who got distracted by that skinny, black haired _girl!_ They're both responsible for the creation of _Julia_ – that... _that_ _thing!_ ”

Tiring herself out, Astrid stopped pounding her fist against the ground. Lingering with grief, she remained on her hands and knees with her head hanging low. Then, she stood. A calm, sobering silence overcame the Nord.

“I won't let them get away with it, dear husband,” whispered Astrid. “ _I_ should be in charge of The Delirium – just as I should have been in charge of the Dark Brotherhood.”

 

* * *

 

The carriage driver gratefully accepted Cat's payment for the ride into Whiterun. The Wanderer added a few extra septims to buy his silence.

“Thank you, miss,” he smiled.

“You never brought me here, got it?”

The driver nodded. With the crack of his reins, he pulled away. Cat ran a hand through her black, disheveled hair, watching him roll off.

As soon as the carriage was out of sight, she turned and made her way toward Whiterun's city entrance. The sun began to set as night gradually spread across the sky. Two guards stood at their posts, vacantly staring into the dim, western horizon. They didn't seem to notice Cat as she slipped in with a crowd of mercenaries, traveling vendors, and citizens returning from their usual day trips.

Since Cat was working a contract kill, she had to conceal Old Faithful so as to not draw too much attention. The Wanderer left her combat rifle back at Dawnstar's Sanctuary. Damn thing seemed like overkill anyway. Combat rifles were better for, well, _combat_. Cat wasn't here to _fight_ anyone – just to blow some stubborn Nord's brains out. Cicero was insistent that _she_ fill this contract, as it was agreed between him and the client. Cat didn't like that all too much. The jester hadn't consulted her first. He just assumed she'd do it at the snap of his fingers! The nerve. The Wanderer tried explaining to Cicero that she really _didn't like_ this assassin shit. She was not a trained contract killer by any means – Cat was _just good at_ _shootin' stuff_. Shooting. Smoking. Drinking. Fucking. These were a few of her favorite things.

The Wanderer would have rather done something better with her talents. Maybe something a little more noble. At least, over time this was how she grew to feel. But there she was, hunting down some stranger for the sake of _making a name._ It put a wicked smile on Cicero's face – and it shut him up. The jester begged Cat again and again to go to Whiterun. She couldn't say no. He was extremely pushy, and – admittedly – the princeling knew how to butter her up. _Fine_. Whiterun it was.

The Wanderer drifted through the streets like a stray dog knowing exactly where to sniff out yesterday's scraps. Her target, Kodlinn Gray-Light, stayed at the Bannered Mare. _There's a blast from the past,_ thought Cat. She remembered how Cicero took her there to buy her a meal the first time they'd met. She got drunk as a skunk, then made a fool of herself. Cicero was embarrassed, but the Wanderer knew deep down that he was also _intrigued_. The guy loved peculiarity.

Anyhow, Kodlinn was presumably holed up in one of the rooms located in the Bannered Mare's cellar. The inn typically didn't rent out the cellar, but word around the region was that Gray-Light liked his privacy. He'd often times pay double, sometimes even _triple_ , just to get an entire floor to himself. For a man that valued being left alone so much, Cat couldn't wrap her brain around why anyone would want the poor bastard dead. _Money_ , she wondered. _It's always money, isn't it?_ Such was the life of an assassin. Couldn't ask questions. _Just do your damn job and get back home in one piece,_ Cat surmised. _Not the way I prefer to roll._ The Wanderer did _not_ feel, deep in her synthetic soul, that she was in any way, shape, or form a true assassin.

Cat scoped the perimeter of the tavern. There was no way she was about to shoot some asshole in the cellar, then go running out the front door. She wasn't a trained assassin, but she sure wasn't stupid. At the base of the tavern's visible foundation, the Wanderer spotted a small window peeking above the frozen soil. It appeared there was an exit from the cellar after all. It was narrow, but she could skinny through.

Cat moved on to the next step in her mission – getting _inside_ the Bannered Mare. Walking _in_ through the front door was about as foolish as walking _out_. No element of surprise. Fortunately, upon further investigation, she determined there was an entrance through the kitchens. Cat made her way through, passing the ovens, rounding the kettles, and nearly missing a teetering heap of crockery. The Redguard lady who often brought the food out for Hulda was, luckily, nowhere to be seen.

 _Strange_ , thought Cat. The main dining area just on the other side of the kitchen door was eerily quiet. She didn't hear the clang of dishware. She didn't hear Hulda barking orders. Hell, she didn't hear a single note played by the tavern's bard. Cat pressed her palm against the door's surface of the kitchen's exit, hesitant to make her way in. “Christ,” she whispered. The Wanderer racked her brain. Was it some kind of Nord holiday today? She never could get the hang of their damn calendar. _I bet that's what it is,_ she determined. The Bannered Mare was closed for business. But that didn't mean Gray-Light wasn't fast asleep in the cellar. Hulda was probably off on a trip, visiting family god-knows-where. _No continental breakfasts waiting for her clients today._ Cat chuckled to herself. These people didn't have continental breakfasts. They didn't know what pancakes and waffles even were – poor, sad bastards. _They're only the best god damn breakfast you could ever ask for,_ the Wanderer mused. _And lunch! And dinner!_

Cat withdrew Old Faithful from the inside of her duster and pushed the kitchen door open. Sneaking around a small corner, she peeked through the main hall; the glow of her synth eye illuminated with the absence of lantern light. Convinced she heard a noise, the Wanderer slowed her pace. Something, _somewhere_ , sounded like heavy breathing. She looked around. Though the hall was dim, Cat was able to make out most shapes and details. The tables appeared empty, as predicted. The bar stools were vacant, which came as no surprise either. But then, the Wanderer's acute perception picked up a strange sight within the flash of mere seconds. Before Cat's vision went black – not from a loss of consciousness, but from the sudden drop of a burlap sack planted over her unsuspecting head – she could have sworn she saw Hulda and Saadia huddled side by side on the floor, squirming against the ropes on their wrists, and huffing through the gags in their mouths.

 

* * *

 

 

> _Dear Cicero,_
> 
>  
> 
> _You'll be intrigued to know that I am in possession of your precious Wanderer. She is still alive, for now. With some persuasion, there have been a great many things I have learned from her. But she is not telling me everything. Perhaps you could enlighten me. To avoid the messy nonsense of delivering pieces of her to you by courier, I implore that we rendezvous at the precise location printed on the back of this letter. Your visit is eagerly expected. Please arrive alone, unless you wish to leave with your Wanderer's head in a sack._
> 
>  

The jester crumpled the letter and dropped it to the snowy ground. Some yards ahead was the location to which the correspondence had directed him. The meetup appeared to be an encampment of some sort. Cicero jumped down from the back of the Wanderer's horse, Sinatra. “Alright you blue eyed sack of meat,” grumbled the princeling, “don't go running off because a rabbit bounced your way.” He pointed a finger to the ground. “For the love of Sithis, _stay here!_ ”

Sinatra shook his mane and nickered.

Cicero trudged along in the snow, regretting his decision against teleportation. Arguably, he wasn't clear as to the exact location. Furthermore, the jester was clueless as to whom sent the letter. To get the clearest picture of what awaited him, Cicero thought it might be best to arrive the old fashioned way.

The encampment was just ahead.

Upon Cicero's arrival, he spied an arrangement of tall, wide tents made of thick, wind resistant fabric. In the center of the camp were two Nords who had been stripped to their undergarments, wearing shackles on their wrists. Both knelt on the ground, hanging their heads low. Gathered around them were three Thalmor soldiers, the first of which read from a scroll of parchment, reciting the same old prosecution against Talos worship. The second Thalmor soldier lifted a greatsword high above her head and brought it crashing down on the neck of one of the Nords. As his head rolled across the icy ground, the other Nord remained where he was, stoically awaiting his own brutal entrance into Sovngarde. The Thalmor soldier lifted her greatsword a second time, repeating the same blow against the back of the surviving captive's neck. It wasn't until both headless bodies slumped to the ground, with their respective heads some distance away, that all three Thalmor took notice of Cicero's presence.

The third soldier approached the jester and gripped him by his upper arm. Cicero thought better of wrenching away and complied, following the Thalmor's lead to one of the largest – and most ornate – tents. After the soldier escorted him inside, she released her grip and departed, leaving the princeling to wonder what was to come next. There was still no sign of Cat, and that had him worried.

“I see you followed my directions well,” said a voice.

Cicero turned to see Ondolemar slipping in through the tent's entrance.

“So it was _you_ who set me up,” observed the jester.

“You left so hastily during our last encounter,” grinned Ondolemar. “What choice did I have?”

“The Wanderer – I demand to know where she is!”

“Yes, yes,” Ondolemar waved his hands in the air, gesturing that Cicero calm down. “She's alive.”

Cicero's eyes glared. “If you've _hurt_ her in any way...”

“I've been a perfect gentleman,” bowed Ondolemar.

“Your _letter_ implied that you tortured her for information,” Cicero scowled.

Ondolemar removed a bottle of wine from a small rack beside his writing desk. “A bold lie, my love,” he clarified. “A bold lie from a bold lover. Honestly, you can be _so_ gullible.” The Altmer set out two fancy chalices with glittery jewels encrusted along their golden stems. He uncorked the bottle and poured the wine. “Have a drink, my love.” Ondolemar gestured to the chalice closest to the princeling.

Cicero wasn't one to turn down wine in situations like these. He lifted the chalice to his lips and sipped without reservation. Ondolemar did the same.

“ _What_ do you want?” asked Cicero.

“To be honest, there are many questions I have – none of which your Wanderer was willing to answer.”

“Such as?”

“Where in Oblivion have you been all these years? You _didn't_ join the legion. I was unable to corroborate such lies. Your whole story was a ruse!” Ondolemar's eyes locked with Cicero's. At first, the Altmer's face was wrenched with anger. Then his expression softened. He reached a hand to caress a strand of Cicero's hair. “My dearest Cicero... _please_ tell me the _truth_.”

Cicero closed his eyes and leaned into the caress. The back of Ondolemar's hand gently stroked the princeling along the curve of his cheekbone.

“You still smell the same,” whispered Cicero, enjoyably taking in the aroma of Ondolemar's glove. “As I remember it – freshly bloomed nightshade.”

Ondolemar grinned. “ _Answer_ my question.”

Opening his eyes, Cicero lifted his chalice and took another drink. “When I disappeared all those years ago in Cyrdodiil, the truth of it was, well – I joined the Dark Brotherhood.”

Ondolemar crossed his arms, tilting his head with disapproval.

“But I no longer operate under their agenda.”

“Is _that_ why you abducted a Dark Brotherhood assassin from my room?”

Cicero nodded. “ _Payback._ ” The jester set down his wine glass and took Ondolemar's hand, pulling him closer. “I didn't count on _you_ being the target. It was all a dreadful coincidence.”

Ondolemar leaned forward, pressing his forehead against Cicero's. He closed his eyes and took a deep, controlled breath.

“Now,” said Cicero, “where do we go from here? I want the Wanderer released. So name your terms.”

With his eyes still closed and his head still pressed to Cicero's, Ondolemar furrowed his brow and whispered, “Do you _love_ her?” He squeezed Cicero's hand as he uttered the word _love_.

“I do,” replied the jester. He pulled his head away and looked Ondolemar in the eyes. “You must accept that.”

“Could you ever love _me_ again?” asked the Altmer, pleadingly.

Cicero grinned, slipping his arms around Ondolemar's waist. “There was always a place in my foolish heart for an elf like you.” Then the princeling coldly turned away and repeated, “Name your terms.”

“I – I want you!” demanded Ondolemar.

Cicero turned back toward the Justiciar and crossed his arms. “That is not going to happen. And may you slit the Wanderer's throat because of it! Doing so will not win my affections, and you'll be without any leverage for _any further_ compromise.”

“Then we must compromise?” asked Ondolemar.

Cicero nodded.

Ondolemar dejectedly slumped down into a chair. “Fine!” said the Altmer, waving a hand. “Compromise away.”

Cicero approached him with a delighted smile on his face. “You hunt heretics. You purge all who oppose the Dominion, do you not?”

Ondolemar feebly nodded.

“What if Cicero led you and your Thalmor thugs to a Dark Brotherhood hideout? All the heretics' blood you could ever spill! The very group that took the contract of a Talos-worshipping Nord who wanted you killed in the night like a dog!”

“I'm a little intrigued,” sighed the Justiciar. “However...”

Cicero lifted an eyebrow. “However?”

Ondolemar glanced up at the jester with a hungry look. “ _One_ night,” he said.

With a clever smile, Cicero moved closer to Ondolemar . “Release my Wanderer,” he cooed, gliding a hand along the Altmer's thigh. “And I will give you _one_ night of passion and a _lifetime_ of notoriety for all the assassins' heads you shall collect in Falkreath.”

* * *

music: [Heads Will Roll - Yeah, Yeah, Yeah's](https://youtu.be/MrLJeAL4Ywo?list=FLrosTeDaqPA8Oa9MnKulNJQ)

 


	8. Gun Street Girl

A Thalmor soldier dragged Cat from the cage in which they kept her. Ondolemar allowed Cicero to watch the spectacle from his tent. Such was the only way the jester could be sure they'd set her free.

“Come on now,” grumbled the particularly impatient soldier. “Off you go.” He stopped just outside the encampment, roughly hoisting Cat to her feet. With a brisk shove, she went head first into a drift of snow. Without another word, the Thalmor promptly returned to his camp.

The Wanderer twisted around angrily as she kicked up clouds of white from the snowy ground. “Hey!” she shouted. “Give me back my gun, asshole!” Too late – the elven soldier was out of sight. Old Faithful was long gone. At that moment, snow fell in fat, heavy flakes. “Well – merry _fucking_ Christmas to you too!” Cat bellowed through a sudden rush of wind.

The Wanderer huffed, then stood. Her hair and duster were covered in frosty clumps, some of which melted against the warmth of her body, then re-froze with every other blast of wind. “Fucking _elves..._ ” she grumbled. “Stealing my shit...” Cat trudged a bit, then turned around, furiously shouting as she walked backward. “That's why nobody around here likes you!” The blizzard howled over her voice.

Some yards away, Sinatra gave a disconcerting bray that carried over the rush of the wind. Cat's ears perked at the familiar sound.

“Sin?” she smiled. The Wanderer ran up to her horse. She patted his snout and ran her fingers through his snow-covered mane. “How'd you get all the way out here? Did Cicero bring you? Did he?”

Glancing around, Cat saw no sign of the jester. He was probably still at the encampment. If Sin wasn't freezing his hooves off, she wondered about trying to sneak back inside. But what if that wasn't what Cicero wanted? The next best course of action would've been to simply head home.

“Hope he knows what he's doing,” Cat mumbled. Going back into that Thalmor camp might've been foolish anyway. Those pointy eared devils outnumbered her, and she didn't feel too keen on being locked back up in a cage – fed nothing but old apple scraps! Above all else, judging by the decapitated bodies she spied on her way out, Cat didn't want to push their limits. Apple scraps were gross and all, but they sure beat the guillotine – or whatever the fuck those bastards used for their sick execution parties.

The Wanderer climbed to Sin's back, navigating the horse northbound. “Those elves weren't very nice, boy. _No_ they weren't.” She affectionately patted the horse as they trotted along. “Bunch of self righteous _dicks_.”

Sin neighed.

The two traveled for some time until night fell. The weather grew extremely cold as the sunlight departed from view. “We need to stop soon,” said the Wanderer.

After some time, she spied a small campfire not far off in the distance. Cat pointed to the remote flickering. “ _Bingo,_ ” she winked. “Come on, let's hope _they're_ hospitable. You never know in this hellhole.”

Sinatra trotted up to the campfire, slowing his pace once they were well within reach of its warmth. The Wanderer lowered herself to the ground. “Hm... no one's here.” Cat moved closer to the fire and took a seat. Lifting her hands to the blaze, she warmed herself against its radiating heat. Some time passed and her eyelids grew heavy. But before she could transition to the bedroll spread across the soil, her eyes caught the shape of something unnatural moving from within the fire. “The hell?” Cat leaned forward, feeling the heat _nearly_ burn the flesh from her one green eye. The shape was round – like a face. A _woman's_ face.

“Greetings again, my little witch,” spoke the face in the flames.

Cat's body flinched and she jumped from her seat. “Jesus!”

The fire grew, stretching upward like a geyser. Then it split in two as a human figure stepped out from its black center. Once the figure had both feet on the ground, the flames died back down to their original size. There, standing between the Wanderer and the campfire, was an old hag of a woman with thinning hair, spindly fingers, and a long, crooked nose.

“Not quite,” chuckled the woman. “But he was _talented_ for a man...”

“Y – _Yaga?_ ” Cat squinted at the very sight of her.

The witch gave a nod. “What's this?” She eyed the horse. “Fresh _meat_ you've brought for me?”

“No,” frowned Cat. “Please don't eat Sin. He's a good friend.”

Yaga took a seat on a nearby stump. “Horses _are_ good – but their meat is tough. Not soft like plump young men or small children.”

The Wanderer shuddered.

“Yaga sees that you've left your old prison – the Shivering Isles of Sheogorath.”

Cat nodded. “Since we last spoke, a lot has happened.”

The crone smiled devilishly. “Yaga knows this. Yaga smells this change on you. It suits you, girl.” The witch reached for Cat's arm. The Wanderer knew better than to wrench away or argue. She let the crone do as she pleased. As feeble as Baba Yaga appeared, she may have very well been the most powerful creature that ever crossed Cat's path.

“Child, let me see this mark upon your skin.” Yaga inspected the tattoo of binary code the Institute placed on the underside of Cat's forearm. “Ah...” she nodded upon inspection.

Cat shook her head. “I don't like the look in your eye.”

“And you never will.” Without a moment's hesitation, Yaga swiftly dug her sharp nails into the Wanderer's skin, slicing at her flesh around the tattoo as if she were cutting a crude shape from heavy cloth.

Cat threw her head back and shrieked in pain. Birds lost in their dreams suddenly burst from the surrounding trees, spooked by the very sound of the Wanderer's cries. Heat swelled from her wrist to her shoulder, drifting forward a fierce wave of agony. Every nerve cried out, bombarding her brain with signal after signal of gut-wrenching pain. But the Wanderer knew the drill. There was nothing she could do when Yaga set her mind to it. The witch had the physical strength of a bear – or _worse_. Cat simply kept screaming, upsetting the poor horse as he whinnied in a panic.

When the skin removal was over, Yaga twisted her head all the way around as if the damn thing sat unnaturally backward on her shoulders. She looked at the horse. “Shut your damn mouth,” she barked in a guttural, otherworldly voice. It sounded like it had come from the devil, himself. Sin quieted his frenzy, blinking those big blue eyes against the still, cold air. Then, Baba Yaga twisted her wrinkled, balding head back around the natural way, staring at Cat with inarguable authority. “Look at your arm.”

The Wanderer looked down. Where there had once been skin, now all that was left was a facsimile of forearm bones, constructed from metal. And across the metal crosshatch of bones and muscle was what appeared to be a panel, decorated with buttons, slots, chips, and connectors. “It's a motherboard,” Cat's voice shook, her cheeks streaked with recent tears. “But what function does it serve?”

“It's all the power you need, child.” Baba Yaga grinned. “ _You're_ the witch. Use your _powers_.”

“Now?”

“When the time is right.”

The old crone stood, swirling her fingers in a circular motion. A black hole as big as herself appeared from nowhere – as if she cracked the surface of the air, itself. Before Yaga departed through the strange void, she looked over her shoulder and asked Cat with a curious tone, “Have you told your demon prince about me, child?”

“No,” confessed the Wanderer.

Yaga nodded. “Good. Witches need to keep their own troublesome secrets now and again.”

* * *

music: [Gun Street Girl - Tom Waits](https://youtu.be/l4XZWZ91kfc?list=FLrosTeDaqPA8Oa9MnKulNJQ)

 

 


	9. Hypocrite

Cicero was alone with Ondolemar. The high elf had already positioned himself against the princeling, slowly removing his own Justiciar robes.

“You've stayed in pleasant shape,” nodded Cicero, watching the elf strip. His eyes ate up the tasty vision of Ondolemar's naked upper half. The Altmer's bronze skin was still as smooth as ever, wrapped snug around the contours of lean chest muscles. His body had an athletic form to it, creating a well toned path from his neck to his groin.

“As have you,” whispered Ondolemar, pressing his lips gently against Cicero's. As he did so, his fingers unfastened the belt around the jester's leathers, easily removing the entirety of the princeling's armor.

Cicero leaned in closer for the kiss, unlacing the fabric of the high elf's black trousers. With little resistance, they dropped to the ground, and the two of them, as naked as ever, intimately pressed against one another. The jester secured the Altmer's erection in his hand, stroking its length. Cicero squeezed along Ondolemar's firm penis as the two were locked in a deep, passionate kiss.

 _All to free the Wanderer,_ thought Cicero. But admittedly, he enjoyed the stimulation of it all. What was to happen after it was over? He didn't want to think about that...

The Justiciar widened his lips, massaging his tongue against Cicero's. The jester gave a soft moan and Ondolemar echoed it. The high elf cried out from the splendid feeling of Cicero's grip around his cock. He rocked his hips slowly in sync with every stroke.

Still gripping the elf down below, the princeling kissed down along Ondolemar's neck, running the tip of his tongue along the curvy shape of the Justiciar's lean chest. Cicero licked, then kissed, stopping to suck on a nipple, then proceeded further below.

Ondolemar panted with anticipation.

The jester could feel his own erection bobbing out against, and gliding down along, Ondolemar's body as he settled to his knees. Cicero's tongue licked the center of Ondolemar's hardened stomach, then traced a path down to his groin until his open mouth found the elf's eager erection, swallowing the length of its smooth warmth.

Ondolemar pointed his chin to the ceiling, closed his eyes, and moaned.

Cicero slid the entire shaft into his mouth, pushing its tip into the warm, wet hug of his throat. The elf groaned louder with each tugging, sucking sensation _._ With a quick gesture, Ondolemar motioned for Cicero to stop, afraid that he might finish too quickly.

“Can't handle it?” grinned the jester from below. “You _never_ could.”

“Stand back up,” Ondolemar commanded with a smirk.

Smiling, Cicero rose to his feet, embracing the elf as they kissed once again.

Ondolemar pulled his lips away and said, “It's _my_ turn.” The elf crouched down. Cupping the tight sack beneath Cicero's shaft, the Justiciar licked all along its length, then stopped at the tip, slowly kissing it as if he were kissing Cicero's lips. Slow and deliberate, the elf's mouth caressed the head of Cicero's cock, craning his face from side to side with each deft, careful kiss.

The jester above grinned wickedly – his ears teased by the delicate sound of the elf's kisses below. Adrenalin surged within Cicero, and so he gripped Ondolemar's lush, white hair, pushing his head down farther over the expanse of his privates. Rocking his hips, Cicero pumped against the elf's face, firmly keeping his busy head in place with that solid grip on the back of his white hair.

Ondolemar reached between his own thighs, stroking himself in tempo with the princeling's commanding hip movement. As minutes went by, Cicero's volume rose – he felt the sudden tremble of his privates against the soft palette of the elf's throat. The jester spilled into Ondolemar's willing mouth, and at that moment the Altmer couldn't bear it any longer, subsequently ejaculating into his own hand at the very _taste_ of the jester's ecstasy.

When all was said and done, and the two had caught their breaths and regulated the beats of their hearts, Cicero found himself lying naked across a bed with his former lover. Ondolemar begged to embrace the jester, but Cicero allowed no such thing. Thoughts of his Wanderer went through his head. Such a thing didn't feel right – more so than even the sex, itself.

In a cold, but determined, voice, Ondolemar said, “I love you.”

Cicero flipped from his back to his side, propping his crimson head on a casually bent arm. Glaring hard at Ondolemar, he smiled. “That was your one night of passion – _don't_ ruin it.”

 

* * *

 

“Do you think this is wise?” asked Babette. The little vampire scrunched her face with skepticism.

Astrid walked the snowy shore just outside the entrance to the Dawnstar Sanctuary. With her arms crossed and shaking her head, Babette stared at the pacing woman.

“I have the others on board with my plan,” debated Astrid.

“The last time you did this–”

“–Don't you tell me about the last time I did this!” The Nord rushed up on Babette, then stopped before she became too close to doing something she might regret. Calming her demeanor, she said, “This won't be like the _last_ time.”

“You _really_ have all the others on board?” asked Babette.

Astrid nodded. “Veezara, Krex, _everyone_.”

Babette opened her mouth to say something, then pressed her lips together and sighed.

Astrid shook her head in disgust and confusion. “What possible allegiance could you have to that _fool?_ ”

“He isn't like Julia,” explained Babette. “He's not cruel to us. He recruits worthy initiates. He gets the contracts filled quickly, offering us the work _we_ want, _when_ we want it. He's...” her voice trailed off.

“What?” barked Astrid. “He's _what?_ ”

“He's a good leader.”

Insulted, Astrid asked, “And I _wasn't?_ ”

Jaw dropped, Babette raised her hands, waving them back and forth. “No, no! Astrid, that is _not_ what I meant! You were a great leader. But this is _his_ syndicate. He _receives_ the contracts. How will we collect contracts if we eliminate Cicero?”

“Oh, he'll _give_ us the contracts.” Astrid nodded with determination.

“ _How?_ ”

“We plan to hold him prisoner.” With bold certainty, Astrid pointed to the ground. “ _Force_ him – or else the gunslinger dies.”

“You've _seen_ what he's capable of,” argued Babette. “He'll kill us all. Furthermore, you literally _can't_ _hold_ Cicero prisoner.”

A contemptuous smile stretched across Astrid's face. “Krex has devised a new spell.”

Babette shrugged. “He always said there's a spell for every circumstance. But does he know it will work? Has he tested it? There aren't exactly a lot of teleporting, half-daedric princes lying around.”

Astrid turned away from Babette, speaking in a low tone. “We found some ... _people_... to test the spell on. They lived in Dawnstar.”

Babette squinted her red eyes with confusion. “ _What_ people in this city have the ability to teleport?” Then her eyes went wide with horror. “ _Vampires?_ You tested his spell on the vampires?”

“I'm sorry, dear Babette. It was the _only_ way.”

Babette raised her hand to her chest. “Would you have tested such a thing on _me?_ ”

“No. Absolutely _not_. You're our sister.”

Babette's eyes watered with teary trickles of blood. Saddened, her chin dropped. “They're dead, aren't they?” asked the little vampire.

Astrid looked away.

“So,” said Babette, “you have the spell to trap the prince because you've experimented on my kind. You've gained the support of the others, in spite of my knowledge of such heinous things. You want to turn on our leader who has led our assassins to nothing but achievement and satisfaction with their dark craft. To guarantee _his_ compliance, you plan to hold a gunslinger captive with an arrow at her back – forever? And... you want _me_ to go along with this?”

With pleading eyes, Astrid looked back at her old friend. “You've twisted the reality of the situation with your pessimistic words. This _will_ work. Can't you support me?”

Babette shook her head. “No, sister.”

Astrid's expression grew dark. “Then get _out_ ,” she snapped. “You won't want to be here within the week. We plan to trap the fool as soon as he teleports back.” The Nord departed from the shoreline, keeping her sights straight ahead so as to ignore the look of hurt and betrayal on the unchild's face. Without another word, Astrid opened the door to the Sanctuary and slipped inside, closing it behind her with the echo of an unwelcome crash of stone against stone.

 

* * *

 

“Silence, my brother,” Ondolemar responded to the Falkreath Sanctuary's mysterious door.

“Welcome home,” the entrance rasped. The black door, decorated with the macabre carving of a skull, slid open, revealing a narrow stone stairway leading down into the Dark Brotherhood's hideout.

Cicero followed the Justiciar and his twelve Thalmor soldiers as they navigated through the passageway. Young Brotherhood initiates caught sight of the intruders – some jumped up to fight, while others dropped what they were doing and fled.

Thalmor voices echoed through the cavernous hideaway. _“Die!”_ The golden steel of elven weapons glinted in the lantern light as the soldiers brandished their fancy munitions against the scrambling onslaught of blindsided assassins.

Ondolemar strode through the sparring mob that crowded the main hall and entered the Sanctuary's mess. With vengeance in his eyes, the Justiciar cast a fire spell, sending waves of destruction magic cascading across a group of initiates at the dining table. The assassins scattered and dispersed from the explosive fire magic. Some rolled along the ground desperately trying to extinguish the flames that crawled up their shrouded armor. Others toppled to the floor, too overwhelmed by the fires that were brought down upon them. Flames flicked and bounced every which way, crawling up the tapestries and spreading across the massive, cavernous walls. Smoke billowed in the air above, growing thicker as the blaze spread, burning everything in its wake. All the while, Ondolemar's soldiers slaughtered initiates left and right, running them through at every given opportunity.

This went on for some time, until every last assassin fell dead or otherwise ran off – never to be seen again. The floor was littered with bodies as Thalmor inspected each and every last one to ensure no survivors – for those that flinched were instantly stabbed with a sword.

When Ondolemar was finally sure that each initiate had been killed, he ordered his soldiers to leave at once. “Get on your horses, arm your bows, and hunt down those who fled. _Kill them all._ ”

As the Thalmor shuffled away, exiting the Sanctuary one by one in a uniformed fashion, the Justiciar realized that Cicero was _nowhere_ to be seen. Earlier, the jester was _right there –_ right beside Ondolemar, watching as the assassins were forced to meet their end. But now? The Altmer couldn't locate the princeling. As the last soldier left, the Sanctuary was quiet. _Very_ quiet. That was when the Justiciar's sharp hearing picked up a sound from the next room – a bedroom, just left of the main hall. Ondolemar quickened his pace, following the sound until it became clearer. It was Cicero's voice.

“Come out, come out wherever you are,” sang the jester. His melodic request was met with silence. “Not _speaking_ to me, are we?” Cicero shook his head and laughed. “ _That's_ nothing new.”

Ondolemar stopped at the entrance to the room, watching Cicero as he scoured its corners, obviously searching for _someone_. He yanked sheets from the bed and pushed over dressers.

“There is nowhere left for the Matron to hide,” said Cicero, as he tugged open the doors to a nearby armoire. It was empty. The princeling took a step back. With a contemplative expression in his golden eyes, he lifted his hand to his chin, scanning the room for the last possible hiding place. With the snap of his fingers, Cicero nodded at a nearby trunk – a space just big enough for one person. The jester approached the trunk, lifting his boot high and giving it a solid kick. “Found you,” he snickered. Cicero bent forward and flipped open its lid.

Inside the trunk was a dark-haired, female Bosmer curled into the fetal position. She looked up, snarling at the jester who stood over the top of her as he stared down with a sadistic grin.

“Who is that?” asked Ondolemar.

His question went ignored as the Night Mother rose to her feet, glaring at Cicero with those black, rodent eyes. “Shall we pick up where we left off?” she hissed.

“Why not?” asked Cicero as the pupils of his yellow eyes transformed from ovals to slits. The power came to him with more fluidity now. He shapeshifted into a demonic version of his own self, wrought with a tougher bone structure and an indescribably wicked aura of deviltry that surrounded his very being.

“Aw,” the Night Mother rasped with condescension. “The little prince is a little _Daedra_. Did your daddy teach you this trick?”

A horrific, open smile was all the expression Cicero's face exhibited. Unmoving. Unchanging – it was as if he could create no other shape with his mouth. The princeling's sharp teeth made his face all the more unsettling... all the more _inhuman_.

“Your _meat_ ,” said Cicero in a deep, unhallowed voice that emerged from static, unflinching lips, “will taste so _sweet_.”

The Night Mother climbed out of the trunk, uttering the words, “ _Not_ very creative...” just before the half-Daedric prince lunged on her like a hungry animal, sinking his jaws into her skin. He bit and tore at Julia, ripping chunks of flesh from marrow, snapping tendons, and spilling unimaginable amounts of blood to the floor. The princeling chewed and gnawed, swallowing what he could, spitting out random bits, and licking – _lapping_ – at the runoff of gore from bone.

Stunned, Ondolemar could not believe his eyes.

Now realizing that the Altmer lingered at the forefront of the room, Cicero looked up from his kill. Blood streaked from his mouth to his neck, stained across his dark leathers. Gradually, the jester's appearance returned to its original state. Those disconcerting pupils grew back to their usual, ovular form. Those sharp, cat-like teeth returned to a less aggressive shape. As all the corporeal features of a Daedra retreated, so did the princeling's unsettling ambience of sin. Cicero was _Cicero_ once again.

Ondolemar dropped to his knees. “Y – _you_...” he stammered.

Cicero stood, abandoning his mangled pile of limbs and meat. What remained of the Night Mother was now nothing more than the remains of a fresh slaughter. He approached Ondolemar, unsure how the Justiciar would react. The jester quietly braced himself for a fight.

“You are one of the _divines_ ,” said Ondolemar, almost breathlessly.

“Not quite,” replied Cicero, cautiously advancing on the Altmer.

Still on his knees, the Justiciar put his hands together, as if he were about to begin a prayer. “Somehow,” he said, “one of the Daedra willed you – a _man_ – to be a divine!” Shocked, Ondolemar gasped. “You have all the power of a Daedric prince...” He bent his head forward, prostrating himself before Cicero. “I genuflect unto to you, by the power of all the divines, of all that is legend of my people!”

“Get up,” said Cicero, flatly.

Ondolemar stood, reaching a hand to the princeling, hesitant to touch him for fear that he may desecrate him. His eyes locked onto Cicero's every move. “I cannot believe I had the privilege to lie with you as I did,” his voice shook.

Still moving closer to the Justiciar, Cicero sighed, wiping the Night Mother's blood from his face before it dried to his skin. Then, he gripped Ondolemar's quivering hand and insisted, “It is _still_ _me_.”

The Altmer lifted Cicero's hand to his chest, holding it close like a rare, sacred treasure. “Please,” he begged. “Take me with you. Make me a part of your life.” Ondolemar couldn't resist such a thing as powerful as a Daedra. _What_ Thalmor Justiciar would be able to pass up such a thing? “Bless me, Cicero,” he said with urgency. “ _Love_ _me_ , Cicero!” he shouted with insistence.

“Let go!” Cicero yanked away his hand. “You have always felt strongly for me, Ondolemar.” The jester's voice grew sharp. “For that, I am grateful to have been such a coveted _object_ of your desire.” He shook his head. “But that was all I ever was to you. An object. A thing to be _controlled_. An _accessory_ to your life.”

“I promise, Cicero, it won't be like that!” begged the Justiciar.

“Lies,” growled Cicero. “And _hypocrisy!_ ”

Ondolemar's brow scrunched with perplexed insult. He touched a hand to his own chest. “Hypocrisy?”

Cicero moved closer to the Altmer, so close Ondolemar could feel the princeling's breath on his lips. “You behead those who worship a _man_ who, according to _their_ legends, was a divine.” Cicero looked Ondolemar up and down with disgust. “And yet here you are, begging the attention _of a man_ you so readily call _divine_.” The princeling shook his head. “That,” he said, “is what you've always done to me, Ondolemar. Even _before_ this day.”

“What in Oblivion are you talking about?!” cried the high elf.

“You put Cicero on a pedestal. You worship him like a _thing_. A false idol that consumes your very life. Always begging Cicero. Wanting to keep Cicero – control Cicero!” The jester paused, raising an index finger and an eyebrow. “And yet! And yet... in that same breath... you dedicate your life to destroying those who do exactly as you do!” With a combative shove, Cicero pushed the Justiciar to the floor. Ondolemar did nothing to fight back.

As Cicero walked out of the bedroom, striding toward the Sanctuary's exit, he took notice that the proud and arrogant high elf made no attempt to stand back to his feet – no attempt to argue or fight.

Ondolemar simply hung his head and wept.

* * *

music: [The Passenger - Iggy Pop](https://youtu.be/6lAQ0Sfm0kI?list=FLrosTeDaqPA8Oa9MnKulNJQ)

 

 


	10. I Can't Move

 

Once the sun rose from the east, Cat saddled up the horse and made her way back to Dawnstar. But it wasn't long before she needed to stop for a bite to eat. Too much time had passed since those old apple scraps, and her stomach was growling like a Deathclaw in heat. She damn near felt _faint_. The Wanderer had no provisions with her aside from the clothes on her back, so it was only natural that the next course of action was to stop at the nearest town. Cat didn't have any money to buy food, so it was up to her to either convince a kind-hearted soul to show pity, or _steal_ the damn food when their ungenerous backs were turned!

Cat spotted a small village just on the eastern bank of the White River. Sin trotted up to the village entrance as she pulled his reins to slow him down. Cat read the sign: _Riverwood_. The Wanderer figured there _had_ to be food floating around there, _somewhere_. Plus, the village looked _just small enough_ that the residents could potentially be more neighborly than those in the bigger cities.

Her stomach growled. “Alright, alright – shut up!” Cat growled back.

Before The Wanderer could make her way inside Riverwood, a bright, powerful blast of light flashed beside her.

“What the hell?” she cried. Meanwhile, Sinatra had reared up in a panic, bucking Cat to the ground. The flash came again, and something fierce and hot bounced off the Riverwood sign, sending sparks tumbling to the cobblestone path.

“I know that sound...” Cat grimaced.

Approaching from just around the path's bend was a white-haired young man dressed in leathers, goggles strapped around his face, and a _Pip-boy_ hugging the very arm that aimed a laser rifle right between the Wanderer's eyes.

“Shit!” Cat rolled out of the way just before X1-81 took another shot.

Sinatra whinnied and stamped his hooves. He burst into a gallop, zig-zagging back and forth down a nearby hill.

Cat stood and ran after the horse, looking back over her shoulder only to see the Courser picking up his speed – he was definitely coming after her.

“ _Motherfucker!_ ” she yelled over her shoulder. Blasts of plasma bit holes in the dirt all around the Wanderer as she practically danced her boots from side to side trying to avoid having her feet blown off.

Out of breath, Cat ducked behind a tree. That damn horse was nowhere in sight. Her stomach growled. “For the love of god,” she raged, glaring squarely at her gut, “ _shut the fuck up!_ ”

X1-81 approached from not more than a few yards away. Cat knew it wouldn't take but a few seconds for him to find her. She was cornered behind a tree, right on the bank of the White River. The water looked too cold to swim and the current looked too strong.

“God damn it,” said the Wanderer, feeling more trapped _here_ than she ever did back in that Thalmor camp.

The young man snuck up on Cat, moving in from her peripheral on the right. He pointed the laser rifle mere inches from her forehead and said, “Nothing personal. I am simply following Julia's orders.”

Just then, a spastic neigh bellowed from their left as Sinatra, having appeared from _nowhere_ , barreled into both the Courser _and_ the Wanderer, toppling the two synths down to the dirt.

As a result of the tumult, X1-81's weapon had been knocked from his hand. Cat spotted it – the thing was flung just on the opposite side of the tree, some steps away – but it was well out of reach. The Courser pushed himself away from her as he crawled after the gun, but the Wanderer grappled with the back of his leathers, desperately tugging him away from the laser rifle. Christ, he was strong – _very_ strong. She couldn't overpower a strapping young man such as him. All Cat could do at this point was endeavor to slow him down.

As the Wanderer gripped at him with all her might, she looked down to see the missing flesh from her arm. The shininess of the motherboard wedged just between those metal bones of hers – it gave Cat an idea. She started pushing buttons and, sure enough, that little control panel lit up like a god damn Christmas tree. Bolts and jolts of electric currents zipped back and forth quickly. After a few seconds, the current managed to gather up enough momentum to create a wave of electricity that latched onto the nearest conductor it could find – a man-sized _machine_ by the designation of X1-81. The Courser stopped struggling as the current absorbed into his skin, running up and down his body in swift, flashing waves. As it did so, Cat could suddenly _feel_ what he felt. She could suddenly _see_ what he saw. And there it was – they were _connected_ , the Wanderer and the Courser.

From this point on, Cat had full access to the core matrix of X1-81's operating system.

 

* * *

 

After exiting the Falkreath Sanctuary, and trying not to trip over the bodies that lined the way out, Cicero needed to return home – and _fast_. He didn't want to look upon Ondolemar's face ever again. After the high elf discovered who the jester _really_ was, the Altmer had little motivation to go chasing after a resentful Daedric prince who held nothing but contempt for the Thalmor's ways.

Without another thought, Cicero braced himself and instantly teleported away from Falkreath. In a moment's flash, he appeared, front and center, in the main hall of the Dawnstar Sanctuary. When the bright light around him died down and his surroundings came into full view, Cicero's eyes met with the fiendish smirk of Festus Krex – the old wizard assassin. Before the jester could bid the wizard a casual greeting, Krex swirled his hands around, palms up, conjuring a large, violet orb that enveloped Cicero.

“Krex!” he shouted. “What in the name of _Sithis?!"_ The orb hovered some feet off the ground while Cicero tripped and toppled around inside of it. He yelped with confusion – at one point he even said, “Very funny, Krex. Alright, alright. You _got_ poor Cicero. Joke's over!”

The wizard motioned himself forward and the orb moved with his strides. He walked the orb, and subsequently the jester, down to the lower level of the Sanctuary. Krex placed his conjuration in an empty room that had obviously once been used as a dungeon.

“That should do it,” smiled the old man.

Cicero rolled around inside the orb, unable to maintain his balance, all the while banging his fists against its interior. The jester shouted and cursed, all of which was greatly muffled by the robust, glowing walls of his new prison. After he was out of breath and out of energy, having slumped to the bottom of the orb, Cicero sat quietly with his hands folded over his abdomen, glaring furiously at his captor.

It was not long after that point that Astrid entered the room, placing her hand on Krex's shoulder. “Good work,” she said, giving the wizard an appreciative pat on the back.

Krex nodded. “Whatever this old man can do to help your cause, mistress.”

“Is it permanent?” she asked.

“As long as I live and breathe,” grinned Krex. “I'm still working out the long term kinks, but yes – for all intents and purposes – this is permanent.”

Astrid approached the cowering jester with a sneer on her face and deadly ambition in her eyes. “ _Try_ to escape,” she said. “It won't work. You _belong_ to us now.”

* * *

music: [I Can't Move - Martin Creed](https://youtu.be/K1gWpy5yMpg?list=FLrosTeDaqPA8Oa9MnKulNJQ)

 

 


	11. The Final Commandment

 

It was a strange thing, having the Courser as a puppet. Cat gave X1-81 simple commands just to see if he would carry them out. Without question, the Courser did as he was instructed. The Wanderer had him mount the horse, help her up, hold the reins, slow the animal, and so on. From Riverwood to Dawnstar, she issued command after command – simple ones – and, without fail, the young man obeyed. Their minds were _linked_ , Cat realized. But _he_ had no authority over _her_. It was strictly a one-way street. The Wanderer was in charge, from a technological standpoint.

 _We don't really have minds,_ she thought. _We're just computers – computers hidden inside sacks of meat._

Cat's “software” must have used some kind of hack, allowing her to override the Courser's program. She concluded it must have been a pre-installed fail-safe that the Institute built into her. The Wanderer was indeed a one of a kind synth, originally designed for long distance communication. The Institute must have included that control panel in case a Courser on an away mission experienced a malfunction. _Just use the C.A.T. prototype to override it,_ was likely their thinking. _Issue the Courser commands remotely, then return the sad, broken thing to the lab for repairs._ Those scientists were never without their trusty backup plans.

The city of Dawnstar became visible in the distance. Cat and X1-81 still had a way to go. They were to be in the city limits within a half hour. Sin wasn't galloping, only trotting in his usual, pokey way. That horse sure hated to run. As Cat stared at the ground, watching its brown and white texture pass them by, she noticed a brief lapse of sunlight – a very _massive_ brief lapse of sunlight – overhead. Then the sunlight came back, shining down on the backs all three of them. Then it went dark again. And the pattern repeated itself. Sun. Dark. Sun. _Dark_...

Something circled above.

As the Wanderer lifted her eyes, a commanding sound _boomed_ across the sky!

“Holy shit,” she muttered. Cat whipped Sin's reins frantically, hustling the animal along. “Shit! Shit! Shit!” she yelled.

The horse burst into a run only to rear back from the sudden obstruction in his path. The ground shook and the thing that once circled above had now landed below, standing not more than a stone's throw from the three travelers.

“Fucking,” Cat panted, “ _dragons_...”

The scaled monster opened its jaws, emitting a sound that nearly knocked Cat and X1-81 from the horse. She rarely came across these creatures, but every other Nord the Wanderer met talked endlessly about the damn things. Dragons _this_. Dragons _that_. One can't have a proper conversation with a proper Nord without a proper dragon-fightin' story. If Cat could recall the tall tales to the best of her brain, the one that just huffed and puffed and nearly blew them _all the fuck down_ looked to be like an Ancient Dragon. Those red, black, and orange scales; that spiny ridge that crawled along its spiked back. The son of a bitch definitely wasn't a flying gecko.

The creature's voice boomed once more, and this time Cat and the Courser _did_ tumble to the ground. Sinatra, the bastard whom Cat dearly, _regrettably_ , loved, took off running for Dawnstar. As Cat stood to her feet, all she saw was the horse's backside galloping away, every strap and rein and rope slapping furiously against his cowardly hide. _No good, adorable bastard_ , thought the Wanderer. She loved that _stupid_ fucking horse.

Cat turned and saw X1-81 standing with his laser rifle aimed high. He attempted a few shots at the dragon, which only sent the creature into a rage. It thrashed and bellowed, kicking up massive rocks with its swinging, spaded tail. The Courser was _good_ , but the Wanderer believed she was better. Cat snatched the gun from X1-81's grip. Before she could whip herself all the way around and nail the dragon right through its brain, a broad set of jaws came gnashing down over the Wanderer. Her world went dark and she felt the sharp stabbing of teeth and the slippery mucous of a lizard-like tongue. Trapped in the warm, wet dark, Cat felt the tug and suction of the monster's throat, pulling her feet and knees down hard. The creature's jaws flapped open and shut, working its meal closer to the embrace of its hungry belly.

X1-81 stood there, watching the dragon devour the other synth. He obediently waited for his next command. He had no drive to act, no thoughts, no ambitions. His only desire was to carry out the C.A.T. prototype's direct orders. No orders had been given, so there he remained – in _data processing limbo_. Then, the dragon suddenly lurched its long neck backward, whipping its head high into the air. The creature opened its mouth, flexing the muscles of its throat with a thunderous hacking sound. It was like watching a giant kitten try to cough up a giant hairball. But before the proverbial hairball could make its appearance, a sizable hole erupted through the center of the monster's neck. Cat had blasted her way out, carving her path to escape with the point blank force of a single plasma shot.

The Ancient dragon's slitted eyes rolled up into its skull and the wretched thing fell over dead. The Wanderer, still gripping the plasma rifle in one hand, feebly pulled herself across the bloody terrain with the other. Squirming and wriggling, there she was, covered in meat chunks and dragon spit. Half of Cat's face had gone missing, and all that was left was the broken metal of her skull.

 _What the fuck do I do now,_ she thought. _I have no energy left in me. My jaw is gone. My ribs are broken. The gun beat the dragon, but my body lost the fight._

The Wanderer concentrated hard, sending code and commands to X1-81.

_Approach me, Courser. There is one last thing I need of you._

* * *

music: [My Shit's Fucked Up - Warren Zevon](https://youtu.be/Fl0ahDKR0QU?list=FLrosTeDaqPA8Oa9MnKulNJQ)

 

 


	12. Hit The Road, Jack.

The Wanderer crept around the corner of the Windpeak Inn. This new body felt... _different_. Taller. Stronger. Some extra... _baggage_... in the front of those pants. A strange sensation. Nothing like it used to be. Everything was the same, but everything had completely changed.

Passersby walked up and down the stony path that trailed around the small town. _They're looking at me and thinking, 'He has an awkward way about him',_ thought the Wanderer. Him. His. _He_. That would take some getting used to. _I'm a 'he' now,_ he realized. The thought struck him as uncharacteristic. All he'd known was Cat's body. That small frame and those mounds of flesh – as meager as they were – across her chest. Cat never was a _proper_ female, though. The Institute didn't give her any _internal_ reproductive organs. No pregnancies. No bleeding. No problems? This new body had the same result, but only because it was a proper male, with all the proper sex organs. The muscle tone was different. The hands and shoulders were different. So many small differences that combined into _one big jump_. One great leap onto the next passing train.

Regarding his old body, the Wanderer grieved a little, but not as much as one might think. That poor vessel had been put through the ringer no thanks to Doc Crocker and a hungry dragon. _Cicero_ , thought the Wanderer, _...will Cicero ever accept me?_ He didn't want to think about it. Not only was the switch from one body to the other so _drastic_ , but the body the Wanderer now inhabited belonged to the damn Courser for whom Cicero had nothing but contempt!

 _To convince a stubborn redhead of anything is a feat,_ thought the Wanderer. _But to convince a stubborn, redheaded, violent, and altogether madly lovesick Daedric princeling?_ The Wanderer's handsome face dropped to an unbecoming frown. _Fuck me._ The Wanderer fought that age old desire to just run away. No matter what body a person inhabits, some things never change.

He wasn't ready. The Wanderer couldn't see Cicero just yet – he had to sit and gather his thoughts. Pressing on, the Wanderer approached the entrance to the Windpeak Inn. Pushing the door open, a family of Nords pushed their way out. As they bustled down the exit's steps, he noticed one of the young men dropped a leather and fur hooded cape. Such a thing caught the Wanderer's eye, so he bent down to retrieve it. The cape would be a good way to go unnoticed, in addition to hiding that laser rifle holstered to his hip. He swung the cape over his back, securing it to his shoulders just before pulling up the hood. Having fashioned a disguise just barely good enough to slip through a crowd, the Wanderer entered the Windpeak Inn.

Wiping the surface of a wooden table, Thoring looked up from his cleaning to greet the hooded patron. “Food? Drink? A bed?” he asked, gesturing to the tavern all around with a wet rag.

“Could use a drink,” admitted the Wanderer. That was the first time he spoke in his new voice. It was deep and hard, with a sort of _richness_ to its overall resonance. It felt beautiful. Powerful. _Different_.

“Follow me,” said Thoring.

The two approached the bar. The innkeeper walked around behind the counter and crouched to the floor. Meanwhile, the Wanderer took a seat, leaning forward on his elbows, trying to keep his head down.

Thoring stood, placing an empty tankard just in front of the hooded man. “What'll it be? Ale? Mead? Brandy?”

The Wanderer searched his leathers to see if X1-81 had carried any coin. _Not a cent._ That Courser must have spent very little time shopping and dining during his stay in Skyrim. Shame, really, but what else could one expect from Coursers? Drab and boring, they were. Consumed with duty and following commands. No wonder the guy was so pent up. The Wanderer sighed, then shook his head. “I don't have a single septim. Water will do. Sorry for wasting your time, innkeep.”

Thoring eyed the strange, hooded man. The visitor had a quality about him that didn't seem familiar to the area. The innkeeper nodded to the Wanderer, as if he understood the man's predicament. “You look like you have quite a way of staving off the sun and snow.” He pointed to the hooded man's dark goggles strapped across his face.

Nearly forgetting he had them on, the Wanderer touched his fingertips to the accessory covering his steel gray eyes.

“Care to make a trade?” asked Thoring.

The hooded man pulled the goggles from his face and slid them toward the innkeeper. “I'm not particularly attached to these. They're yours.” Then he nodded, pointing to a nearby pitcher. “I'll take an ale.”

“A solid choice,” grinned Thoring. He removed the goggles from the counter top and stashed them beneath the bar. Then, the innkeeper poured the pitcher of ale, generously filling the tankard to its brim.

The Wanderer sipped his drink, savoring its bitter, hoppy flavor.

Thoring raised an index finger and added, “I might have _something else_ for you, traveler.” He crouched down a second time, then stood, setting an iron box on the counter top.

The container was round and very small – able to fit perfectly in the Wanderer's palm. The hooded man lifted the box's lid. Revealed inside was a black, paste-like substance, and on the underside of the lid was a tiny, crudely shaped mirror.

“Irritates my skin,” frowned Thoring. “Go on, _take it_. It'll keep the sun from your eyes. Nords use it like nobody's business this far up north. And if you're particularly creative, you can paint something across that _prettyboy_ face that might actually send your enemies running, should you have any.”

“I'm no artist,” nodded the Wanderer, “but I can be particularly creative.”

“Well,” smiled Thoring, “it sounds like you're a _Jack of all trades_.”

“...and a master of _none_ ,” the Wanderer whispered as he lifted his ale to his lips.

“So, what's your name?” Thoring asked politely. “What brings you to Dawnstar?”

His thoughts echoed the innkeeper's words. _Jack of all trades._ “Jack,” said the Wanderer. “My name is _Jack_.”

“Well that's an interesting coincidence,” laughed Thoring. “You gotta _surname_ , Jack?”

“No,” the Wanderer shook his head. “I'm a wanderer. I've only had _one_ real name.”

“Ahhh,” Thoring said with a wink. “Gypsy Jack, it is. You a _seafaring_ man?”

The Wanderer looked up and nodded. “I could be. But on land, it's by horseback – when the horse is _calm_ , that is.” Taking another drink of ale, he shook his head at the very thought of that god damn animal. Then the Wanderer gulped down the last of his beverage and stood. He thanked Thoring for his hospitality just before he turned and left the warm, welcoming confines of the Windpeak Inn.

It was time for _Jack_ to confront the _jester_.

* * *

music: [Hit The Road, Jack - (Ray Charles cover)](https://youtu.be/banQAVYpgFU?t=20s)

 


	13. Kiss With A Fist

 

 

The Sanctuary was just ahead. Krex and Gabriella paced outside, not far from the entrance. Aside from just the two of them, they were alone. Jack wasn't sure if he should so brazenly _waltz right up_ and explain himself. It wasn't _just_ Cicero who didn't trust the face of X1-81 – _none_ of them did! The former Dark Brotherhood members had an even worse time dealing with the Courser. Their contempt for him might've outranked the princeling's.

With his hood still pulled over his white hair, the Wanderer made sure to keep his head down. He moved closer, zig-zagging along the rocky shoreline, positioning himself out of sight. As he moved closer, the Dunmer and the wizard chatted. Eventually, their voices became just within earshot.

 _I have no idea how I am going to go through with this,_ thought Jack. The Wanderer inched himself toward plain sight, but immediately stopped. His ears caught wind of a heinous exchange between the two assassins.

“That damn jester makes _no_ easy prisoner,” complained Krex.

“That comes as no surprise,” remarked Gabriella. “What's the lunatic pulling today?”

Krex grimaced. “The same as usual – screaming at the top of his lungs like a cliffracer in heat!”

The Dunmer smirked, shaking her head. “Too bad you didn't make that magical cage of his _soundproof_.”

“The screamin's better than what he was doing the other day,” grumbled the wizard. “Every time I walked into that dungeon to check on him – there he'd be, _stark naked_ , bent over, and showing me his backside!” Krex made a disgusted noise.

Gabriella threw her head back and chuckled. “Maybe he's good for a laugh after all.” Looking around, she sighed. “Where in Oblivion is that _girl?_ ” The Dunmer raised her hand to her forehead, shielding her eyes from the sun as she attempted to scan the city in the distance.

Pursing his lips, Krex scratched his stubbly chin. “Hm,” he said. “Sorry, Gabriella. Can't help you. I've done my duty. The jester's my charge. Don't worry. That girl will soon be yours.” He looked the Dunmer up and down. “Indulge me. How you plannin' to keep her under control?”

“Simple. Haul her into the Sanctuary at knife-point, granted I get the jump on her before she reaches for her gun. Shouldn't be too hard. She's unaware of what's going on here. Once I show her what's become of her lover – she'll do anything we say. There's a cell down in that dungeon with her name on it. Cicero can finally have some company.”

Krex huffed. “The sooner the better. My hope is he'll _chat with her_ rather than do all that blasted screaming...”

 _Treachery_ , thought the Wanderer. _They've turned on us._ Jack watched from afar as Krex appeared to bid Gabriella a good afternoon. The wizard turned away from the dark elf, about to make his way back into the Sanctuary. The Wanderer needed to act _fast_. He unholstered his laser rifle and raised its scope to his eye. Pulling the trigger, a plasma blast nailed Gabriella right through her chest, knocking her _flat-dead_ to the ground. Startled, Krex spun around, lifting his hands to ready his magic.

As Jack emerged from his hiding place, he fired a warning shot not far from the wizard's feet. The old man hesitated, glancing to the ground, then lifting his head to get a better look at his assailant. Slowly advancing on Krex, the Wanderer said, “Keep those hands where I can see them. Any magic swells from those palms and I'll blow a hole between your eyes. _Trust me_ – my trigger finger is faster than your wrinkled, old wrists.” Jack was right on top of his target now, just close enough for the wizard to get a good, hard look at his enemy's face.

“Sithis!” cursed Krex, compliantly raising his hands high. “What in the nine _damn_ divines do _you_ want, Courser?”

“Take me to Cicero,” demanded Jack. “And _not_ through the front door.” The Wanderer motioned the wizard along with the barrel of his gun.

Krex led his captor around the rocky exterior of the Sanctuary's cavern. Not far from its location was a sewer grate. The wizard open the grate and proceeded down the iron ladder. Jack followed him, keeping his rifle aimed at the old man's back at all times. Krex led the Wanderer through musty old corridors that surrounded the main hall – corridors hardly anyone used, for there was no need to exit out the back entrance, and no drive to visit the _screaming fool_ in the dungeons.

“There,” said Krex, gesturing to the dank, open room with a bright, violet orb levitating within its center.

Jack pushed the wizard into the room using the butt of his gun.

“How 'bout we make a deal?” said Krex, his hands still raised.

Cicero stopped screaming and pressed his face to the inner wall of the orb, watching the mysterious, hooded man and the old wizard.

“How about,” began Krex, “you _take_ the jester. Take him back to the Night Mother. I'll let the two of you walk out of here, through that sewer grate, and we'll _forget_ this ever happened.”

“ _Night Mother?_ ” Cicero muttered under his breath, scowling at the two men.

“C'mon, son, it's a solid deal – whaddya say?” Krex started to lower his hands.

Jack rammed his gun into the old man's spine. “ _Don't_ move!” He lifted the barrel of the rifle to the back of Krex's head. “Hands where I can see them.”

The wizard froze. “It's a good arrangement, if you ask me.” He didn't lift his hands back up, but he didn't continue to lower them.

The Wanderer tightened his finger's grip on the trigger. “Get him out of that _thing_. Release him – _now!_ ”

“You know what I think, son?” Krex grinned fiendishly as he continued to lower his hands. “I think you're not gonna kill me. You're afraid _I'm the only one_ who can set that jester free.”

As Jack shouted threats, the wizard whipped around on the Wanderer, erupting bolts of magic from his fingertips. He knocked Jack to his backside, sending the laser rifle skidding across the floor.

“You're dead now, Courser!” laughed Krex, firing all manner of elemental magic at the Wanderer. With colors and light everywhere, the room lit up like a holiday parade.

Without a second to spare, Jack reared back his leg and powerfully kicked the wizard squarely in his gut, pausing his destructive conjury. The Wanderer then turned onto to his stomach and scrambled for his discarded weapon. Meanwhile, Krex clapped his hands over his abdomen, nearly losing his lunch from the force of Jack's punt. Furious that his magic had been interrupted, the wizard gripped the hilt of the steel dagger that hung from his belt.

“Die!” Krex snarled as he raised his blade high – its sharp point aimed precisely for the Wanderer's back.

The wizard's eyes went wide as he tightened his grip, plunging the blade downward with all his strength. At very last second, Jack snatched up the laser rifle, flipped around on his spine, and sent a round of plasma sailing between Krex's wide, frenzied eyes. The wizard dropped his knife and tottered backward. Jaw hanging, drooling on his own robes, Krex dropped to his knees, rolled his eyes up into that withered, old skull, and _toppled over dead_.

The violet orb surrounding Cicero disappeared, causing the jester to tumble to the dungeon's floor. Still planted firmly on his back, and panting hard for air, Jack smiled at the sight of the princeling's release. But before he could stand to his feet and embrace his true love – there was Cicero, mad as hell, those yellow eyes burning with rage. He lunged on top of Jack and punched him dead in the face. He tried to squirm away, but it was no use. Cicero went right for his throat, choking the Wanderer – whom _he_ thought to be the Courser – with all his stubborn, redheaded might.

* * *

music: [Kiss With A First - Florence & The Machine](https://youtu.be/Il6CA-nqR-Y)

 

 


	14. The Female Highwayman

 

 _Sovay, Sovay all on a day,_  
_She dressed herself in man's array_  
_With a sword and pistol all by her side_  
_To meet her true love, to meet her true love, away did ride._

_...I'd have pulled the trigger, I'd have pulled the trigger and shot you dead..._

 

“Die _worm!_ ” screamed Cicero, grappling at Jack's throat.

The Wanderer's airways were suddenly choked shut. Veins all across his temples and forehead bulged hard as his ivory skin flushed red. He had no choice – Jack drew back his hand and quite literally _slapped_ the jester across his scowling face. The princeling lost his grip and was subsquently knocked to the floor.

Meanwhile, the Wanderer felt something warm trickle down his lips. He reached up to wipe it away, then looked at his fingers. _Blood_. That was Cicero's doing from earlier – he cracked his knuckles right into Jack's nose. “God damn it,” growled the Wanderer, hurrying himself off the floor.

Likewise, Cicero jumped to his feet. “Planning to take me back to the Night Mother, hm? I'll have you know the _shrew_ has been killed!”

“I'm not taking you to – oh, really? You killed her?” Jack nodded, half smiling. “Shit. _Thank god._ ”

“And now I shall kill _you!_ ” Cicero's body twitched as he began the process of shapeshifting into a daedra. But before he could complete the transformation, Jack raised his rifle.

“ _Look_ ,” said the Wanderer, “I don't want to do this. Don't _make_ me do this, Cicero!” He gestured to his gun. “I – I'm not who you _think_ I am!”

The jester's golden, snake-like eyes narrowed. “And who in the name of Sithis _are_ you?”

“It's me! Cat! Your _Wanderer_...”

The princeling threw his head back and laughed. His voice was still the same, being that he hadn't completely shifted. But his teeth had already grown sharp. Jack could see the glint of their pearly points as he howled with amusement with the entirety of his body. Then the jester calmed himself, quieting his voice.

“ _You_ are the Wanderer?” he asked. “ _Lies!_ ” Cicero transformed all the way, becoming the daedric monster that dwelled deep inside. His bones and skin widened and shifted. His voice dropped many octaves, reverberating with rich, monstrous vibrations as he steadily breathed in and out.

“Cicero...” said Jack, shaking his head. He kept his rifle aimed at the princeling. “ _Please._ ”

Cicero charged toward Jack, running forward at an intense speed. There was a viciousness in the princeling's eyes unlike any madness Jack had ever seen. The Wanderer couldn't bring himself to shoot his true love – _his best friend_. He just _couldn't_. At the last second, Jack flipped his rifle vertical, bashing the end of its grip against Cicero's head. It was enough to knock the fool off his feet, but not enough to knock him unconscious.

Cicero collapsed to the floor.

With haste, Jack crouched down and straddled him, pointing the gun right at his lover's nose. “ _Cicero_ ,” he begged, shaking his head. “It _is_ me! I _am_ your Wanderer!”

The half-daedric prince ferociously arched his back, struggling to free himself from Jack's weight. “How dare you suggest such a thing!” he snarled in that heavy voice. “ _Where_ is the Wanderer? Did you _do something_ to her?”

Cicero's eyes were wide and wicked with fury, glaring so hard at Jack that he could almost feel them burrowing into his skin. The princeling's sharp teeth gnashed at the air as his body vigorously thrashed beneath the Wanderer's legs. Even though _Cat_ was now _Jack_ , Cicero was still incredibly strong. _Too strong_. And soon enough, the redheaded daedric monstrosity managed to wriggle free one of his arms, instantly snatching the gun from Jack's grasp.

The Wanderer stood and stumbled backward, trying to quickly back away. But all he managed to do was smack his posterior against a far dungeon wall. There he remained, his shoulders flattened against its stone, taking in quick, fearful breaths. Cicero fired a shot, but it missed, ricocheting to the lower right of his target. Luckily for Jack, the princeling's hands weren't so nimble in daedric form. And so, he immediately transitioned back into a human.

The jester pulled the laser rifle close to his shoulder, aiming it more precisely at what he accused to be the Courser. “Cicero isn't used to these weapons,” he said, narrowing his sights on the dead center of Jack's face. “But it's _never_ too late for some _target practice!_ ”

“ _Rasha!_ ” screamed the Wanderer, defensively raising his hands in the air.

The jester paused the impending pull of his trigger finger. Then he slightly – _only slightly_ – lowered the gun. “Excuse me?” he asked, glaring from behind the length of the rifle's barrel.

“His name!” said Jack, tears streaming down his cheeks, “It was Rasha! You _killed_ Rasha! Y–you killed him because he wasn't the Listener! You killed him b–because he was a _liar!_ ”

Cicero's cold, lethal stare remained fixed on Jack. With the lift of an eyebrow, he asked, “ _Who_ in the name of Oblivion told _you_ about that?”

Jack's hopeful expression dropped. “ _You_ did, Cicero!”

“Horseshit!” snapped the jester, raising the gun back to its original position. “ _Anyone_ could have told you I killed Rasha. _Sithis!_ Cicero even wrote it in his journal!”

With desperation in his eyes, the Wanderer dropped to his knees, clasping his hands together. He lowered his head and begged the jester for mercy. “ _Please_ , Cicero!” he cried. “You _don't_ want to do this! You'll _hate_ yourself if you do this!”

The jester grinned. “On the contrary – Cicero will rather _enjoy_ this!”

“Then we had sex!” shouted Jack. “You told me about Rasha the night we _first ever_...” His voice trailed off as he closed his eyes and quietly wept into his hands.

Cicero paused once again, lowering the gun a bit more than he had the first time. _This_ was unusual behavior for the Courser he'd met at the Institute. Something was wrong – and it stayed the jester's hand.

“I told you that you were _brainwashed,_ ” Jack whimpered. _“_ We had a horrible fight. You shoved me down. I got a cut on my hip. You told me – as you've told me again _and again_ since that day – that you forgave me because of my _honesty_. You said... honesty is brutal. Like a _pickaxe_ –”

“– _to the spine_...” muttered Cicero.

Still on his knees, Jack's upper body shuddered from his cries as he lifted the sleeve of his leathers, wiping heavy tears from his face. Calming his shaky voice, the Wanderer continued, “And then... you told me you _loved_ me...”

Cicero dropped the gun to the floor. He rushed over to Jack, kneeling alongside him. The princeling wrapped his arms around the crying man and held him tight. “ _Wanderer?_ ” he whispered. He couldn't believe it – but _there it was._ This was her. And now? A _him?!_

The two lowered themselves to the floor, leaning into one another until they appeared forever interlocked. Jack buried his face against Cicero's chest, virtually melting into his embrace. It was strange that someone who had only just made him feel so terrified, could then, so quickly, put his mind at ease.

Cicero's arms hugged his Wanderer close. He rocked him from side to side, pressing his cheek against Jack's white hair. With tears, he muttered, “Cicero almost _killed_ you.” Shushing Jack's sobs, he slowly glided his fingertips up and down the Wanderer's back. Then Cicero asked, “ _How_ , Wanderer? How are you inside of the Courser?”

But before Jack could answer the jester, a voice shouted from across the dungeon. “What in the devil is going on here?!”

It was Nazir. Standing beside him were Veezara and the Pretender, herself – _Astrid_.

* * *

music: [The Female Highwayman - Rasputina](https://youtu.be/rsJ9FJ5AJGg)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	15. My Way

 

 

 

“Looks like the jester's been conspiring with the Courser all along,” said Astrid, leaning against a wall, crossing her arms.

Veezara gestured to Krex's body on the floor. “They've killed him!”

Nazir shook his head. “You'll pay for this!” Scowling, he withdrew his scimitar.

Before the Redguard could take another step, Jack sprang forward, snatched the rifle from the floor, took aim, and landed a shot through Nazir's left shoulder. The Reguard dropped his blade and buckled to his knees, groaning and clutching at his fresh wound.

The Wanderer shifted his aim onto Astrid and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. The laser rifle had finally run out of plasma rounds. “Shit!” Jack's brows scrunched with frustration as he chucked the gun to his feet.

At that same moment, Cicero jumped to action as quick as a bullet, himself. He scooped up Nazir's sword, crying out, “Die, Pretender!” and took a stab at Astrid. The Nord felt herself being pushed out of harm's way as Veezara jumped in to valiantly protect her. The jester's blade sliced through the argonian's leathers, piercing the lower right side of his abdomen. Veezara gave a yelp as he withdrew his own weapon. The argonian attempted a swipe at Cicero, but the jester moved too fast, dodging the attack with perfect timing. Veezara swiped at the empty air, causing him to stumble forward. His wound bled heavily from the sheer exertion of it all. He dropped to the floor, landing just beside Nazir, and there the two remained, badly wounded, but nowhere near close to death.

Astrid remained in the entryway of the dungeon, her narrow eyes glaring with contempt for that _little fool._ As she reached down for her dagger, ready and willing to engage the insipid jester in a _good old fashioned knife fight_ , something tugged at the back of her hair.

Cicero gave pause, and watched, in confusion, as the Pretender's head suddenly lurched backward. Something had grabbed a hold of her – and _hard_.

“This,” said an adolescent voice, “is payback, dear sister.”

Babette gripped the Nord's blond hair in her small hands with a strength that betrayed her infantile frame. The little vampire raised a tall glass container over Astrid's head, pouring an oily concoction down along the Pretender's hair, face, and body. Then the unchild shoved her to the ground.

“What are _you_ doing here?!” growled Astrid. “I told you to never come back!”

The vampire remained silent as she grabbed a candlestick from a nearby sconce. With a look of ageless stoicism spread across her childlike face, Babette tossed the candle into the very _lap_ of her former mistress. Astrid's blue eyes went wide as she looked down at the glowing wick. Before she could grab the damnable candle and toss it far – _far_ – from herself, the fire discovered the oily alchemical substance and subsequently moved into its oily, viscous embrace.

Within seconds, flames engulfed Astrid. She sprang to her feet, shrieking from the shock of it all, and ran out of the dungeon, down along the corridor, and into the darkest corner of the lowest level of the Sanctuary. There she thrashed, lighting up the area with her horrific display, screaming sounds that reached unknowable volumes. Flames whipped in large, fanning motions with the frenzied movement of her arms and legs – Astrid looked like an _angel_. A smoldering angel, doing a frightful dance – and singing the tragic melody of any wretched soul who should ever have to suffer being burned alive.

Eventually, her cries diminished as she crumpled to the floor, no longer aware of the fiery wave that washed over her.

No longer present.

No longer in pain.

And perhaps, _grateful_ in the long run, Astrid was finally with Arnbjorn once again.

 

* * *

 

Much time had passed, and all confusion had been settled among the members of The Delirium. Jack's identity and his former self were explained, _again and again_ , to so many syndicate members who could not understand what had happened to the dark haired woman with the missing eye.

Furthermore, even _Jack_ had changed. He now wore Thoring's black makeup over his eyes – it proved to be adequate protection from the glare of the Skyrim sun. In addition, Jack's white hair had grown longer, and he shaved the undersides, pulling its length back into a pony tail. The Wanderer's clothing had changed as well, though he reclaimed his old, long loved weaponry. With the aid of a rather skillful thief from Riften, the Wanderer managed to have Old Faithful stolen back from the Thalmor. In addition, he carried that trusty old combat rifle, now sporting a sharp blade at the end of its barrel at the insistence of Cicero.

It was a repetitive demand uttered by the jester again and again, after he'd finally picked up a gun. Cicero said there was something missing. “It's boring! You can't _stab_ anyone!” Cicero had remarked. And he promptly installed the blade attachment, much to Jack's protestations.

“It decreases my accuracy!” said Jack.

Smiling, Cicero just waggled his finger. “Not if they're right in front of you!” he sang.

And in _all_ that time, the princeling granted Babette sole proprietorship of the Dawnstar Sanctuary. For her loyalty and other such dark qualities – he determined she would be a sound leader for that locale. The jester promised to continue to act as the medium between all Delirium charters and their ensuing contracts. He would deliver the information via teleportation, as would Jack, who now had a working Pip-boy to perform such functions.

And... eventually... Cicero made a point to apologize to Veezara for having injured him. “You were protecting someone who had lied to you – _used_ you,” he said. “Cicero feels _slightly bad_. I did not want to hurt you.”

The argonian and the jester made their peace. Veezara continued to serve under Babette. And as for Babette, she'd managed to heal everyone's wounds, and even went so far as to talk Nazir down from quitting The Delirium altogether. The Redguard eventually came around, but in his usual, _jaded_ sort of way.

And finally, as for Jack and the jester, they decided to _leave_ the Sanctuary. The two bid their farewells and strode away via horseback. Cicero rode Shadowmere, a long time companion of the former Dark Brotherhood. Babette was able to bring the horse to fruition after the destruction of Falkreath's Sanctuary.

And Jack rode atop Sinatra, who was probably Skyrim's worst – and most easily spooked – horse. But he insisted, for old time's sake. And the horse had a way about him, he did manage to save the Wanderer's life when gunned down by a Courser.

“A Wanderer must _wander_ , after all,” grinned Cicero as they drifted, making their way across the land.

The two set out with the intent to explore _all_ of Tamriel, side by side, taking contracts of interest for themselves.

“I refuse to kill anymore innocents,” Jack had insisted. Cicero was not _keen_ on that idea, but understood the Wanderer's need to preserve some of his merits. Jack wanted only the most corrupt of names to bring down. The jester was intrigued by the challenge this posed – and so he agreed.

“Then it's settled. We will see where the names take us,” said Cicero.

 

The End.

* * *

 

 music: [My Way - Frank Sinatra](https://youtu.be/6E2hYDIFDIU?list=FLrosTeDaqPA8Oa9MnKulNJQ)

 

**Author's Note:**

> Stay tuned for more. The Chronicles of Madness might be over, but side stories and further adventures of "Jack And The Jester" are to come... someday.


End file.
